Philip seated himself near the stern, facing Josephine, and Jean gave the canoe a shove that sent it skimming like a swallow on the smooth surface of the lake.  For a moment Philip did not dip his paddle.  He looked at the girl who sat so near to him, her head bent over in pretence of seeing that all was right, the sun melting away into rich colours in the thick coils of her hair.  There filled him an overwhelming desire to reach over and touch the shining braids, to feel the thrill of their warmth and sweetness, and something of this desire was in his face when she looked up at him, a look of gentle thankfulness disturbed a little by anxiety in her eyes.  He had not noticed fully how wonderfully blue her eyes were until now, and soft and tender they were when free of the excitement of fear and mental strain.  They were more than ever like the wild wood violets, flecked with those same little brown spots which had made him think sometimes that the flowers were full of laughter.  There was something of wistfulness, of thought for him in her eyes now, and in pure joy he laughed.

“Why do you laugh?” she asked.

“Because I am happy,” he replied, and sent the canoe ahead with a first deep stroke.  “I have never been happier in my life.  I did not know that it was possible to feel as I do.”

“And I am just beginning to feel my selfishness,” she said.  “You have thought only of me.  You are making a wonderful sacrifice for me.  You have nothing to gain, nothing to expect but the things that make me shudder.  And I have thought of myself alone, selfishly, unreasonably.  It is not fair, and yet this is the only way that it can be.”

“I am satisfied,” he said.  “I have nothing much to sacrifice, except myself.”

She leaned forward, with her chin in the cup of her hands, and looked at him steadily.

“You have people?”

“None who cares for me.  My mother was the last.  She died before I came North.”

“And you have no sisters—­or brothers?”

“None living.”

For a moment she was silent.  Then she said gently, looking into his eyes: 

“I wish I had known—­that I had guessed—­before I let you come this far.  I am sorry now—­sorry that I didn’t send you away.  You are different from other men I have known—­and you have had your suffering.  And now—­I must hurt you again.  It wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t care for me.  I don’t want to hurt you—­because—­I believe in you.”

“And is that all—­because you believe me?”

She did not answer.  Her hands clasped at her breast.  She looked beyond him to the shore they were leaving.

“You must leave me,” she said then, and her voice was as lifeless as his had been.  “I am beginning to see now.  It all happened so suddenly that I could not think.  But if you love me you must not go on.  It is impossible.  I would rather suffer my own fate than have you do that.  When we reach the other shore you must leave me.”