A south-bound steamer was due the next afternoon, it was learned, and plans were made for her to pick up the castaways and return them to Seattle.  At the same time O’Neil discovered that a freighter for the “westward” was expected some time that night, and as she did not call at this port he arranged for a launch to take him out to the channel where he could intercept her.  The loss of his horses had been a serious blow.  It was all the more imperative now that he should go on, since he would have to hire men to do horses’ work.

During the afternoon Miss Gerard sent for him and he went to the house of the cannery superintendent, where she had been received.  The superintendent’s wife had clothed her, and she seemed to have recovered her poise of body and mind.  O’Neil was surprised to find her quite a different person from the frightened and disheveled girl he had seen in the yellow lamplight of his stateroom on the night before.  She was as pale now as then, but her expression of terror and bewilderment had given place to one of reposeful confidence.  Her lips were red and ripe and of a somewhat haughty turn.  She was attractive, certainly, despite the disadvantage of the borrowed garments, and though she struck him as being possibly a little proud and cold, there was no lack of warmth in her greeting.

For her part she beheld a man of perhaps forty, of commanding height and heavy build.  He was gray about the temples; his eyes were gray, too, and rather small, but they were extremely animated and kindly, and a myriad of little lines were penciled about their corners.  These were evidently marks of expression, not of age, and although the rugged face itself was not handsome, it had a degree of character that compelled her interest.  His clothes were good, and in spite of their recent hard usage they still lent him the appearance of a man habitually well dressed.

She was vaguely disappointed, having pictured him as being in the first flush of vigorous youth, but the feeling soon disappeared under the charm of his manner.  The ideal figure she had imagined began to seem silly and school-girlish, unworthy of the man himself.  She was pleased, too, by his faint though manifest embarrassment at her thanks, for she had feared a lack of tact.

Above all things she abhorred obligation of any sort, and she was inclined to resent masculine protection.  This man’s service filled her with real gratitude, yet she rebelled at the position in which it placed her.  She preferred granting favors to receiving them.

But in fact he dismissed the whole subject so brusquely that he almost offended her, and when she realized how incomplete had been her acknowledgment, she said, with an air of pique: 

“You might have given me a chance to thank you without dragging you here against your will.”

“I’m sorry if I seemed neglectful.”

She fell silent for a moment before asking: