And so affairs went on.  He thought at times her color quickened a little when he approached suddenly; he fancied that he occasionally surprised a half-wistful, half-mirthful glance, but was not sure.  He knew that she was as well aware of his intentions and wishes as if he had proclaimed them through a speaking-trumpet.  His only assured ground of comfort was that neither Mr. Merriweather nor Mr. Hackley had yet won the coveted prize, though they evidently were receiving far greater opportunities to push their suit than he had been favored with.

At last his vacation was virtually at an end.  But two more days would elapse before he must be at his desk again in the city.  And now we will go back to the time when we found him that early morning brooding over his prospects, remote from observation.  What should he do—­propose by letter?  “No,” he said after much cogitation.  “I can see that little affected look of surprise with which she would read my plain declaration of what she knows so well.  Shall I force a private interview with her?  The very word ‘force,’ which I have unconsciously used, teaches me the folly of this course.  She doesn’t care a rap for me, and I should have recognized the truth long ago.  I’ll go back to the hotel and act toward her precisely as she has acted toward me.  I can then at least take back to town a little shred of dignity.”

He appeared not to see her when she came down to breakfast.  After the meal was over he sat on the piazza engrossed in the morning paper.  An excursion party for the mountains was forming.  He merely bowed politely as she passed him to join it, but he ground his teeth as he saw Merriweather and Hackley escorting her away.  When they were out of sight he tossed the paper aside and went down to the river, purposing to row the fever out of his blood.  He was already satisfied how difficult his tactics would be should he continue to see her, and he determined to be absent all day, to so tire himself out that exhaustion would bring early sleep on his return.

Weary and leaden-spirited enough he was, as late in the afternoon he made his way back, but firm in sudden resolve to depart on an early train in the morning and never voluntarily to see the obdurate lady of his affections again.

Just as the sun was about sinking he approached a small wooded island about half a mile from the boat-house, and was surprised to notice a rowboat high and dry upon the beach.  “Some one has forgotten that the tide is going out,” he thought, as he passed; but it was no affair of his.

A voice called faintly, “Mr. Scofield!”

He started at the familiar tones, and looked again.  Surely that was Miss Madison standing by the prow of the stranded skiff!  He knew well indeed it was she; and he put his boat about with an energy not in keeping with his former languid strokes.  Then, recollecting himself, he became pale with the self-control he purposed to maintain, “She is in a scrape,” he thought; “and calls upon me as she would upon any one else to get her out of it.”