"I didn't think," said she, after a little while.

"I presume not," said I coldly. "Sometimes women do not stop to think.

You have not stopped to think that there is a limit even to what my

love would stand, Helena. Now, much as I love you--and I never loved

you so much as I do now--I'll never again ask you for what you can not

give me. I've been rubbed the wrong way all I can stand, and I'll not

have it any more. I've brought you here, yes, and I'm sorry enough for

it. But I'm going to fix all that now, soon as I can."

"What do you mean, Harry?" she asked quietly.

"Yonder, across the bay," said I, pointing, "runs a channel. That's

the Chenière. I presume the lighthouse boats come from in there. Maybe

there'll be one down after the storm in a day or so. He'll take out a

message, and get it on some boat bound for Morgan City, perhaps."

"And what then?"

"Why, I shall send out any message you like, beside my own message to

the parents of these boys of mine. And I'll send a message, too, to my

friend, Manning."

She turned her eyes where I pointed once more, this time seemingly

northward across the bay. "Yonder is still another channel," said I,

"not twenty miles from where we stand. It runs back to the live-oak

islands where my friend Manning has his plantation. If the tide serves

and we can get the yacht afloat, it won't take us long to get in

there. Once there, you are safe; and once there, I say good-by. Judge

for yourself whether or not this is the last time."

"And when will that be, Harry?" she demanded, still tracing some

figure on the sand with the toe of her little boot.

"That, I have said, is something I can not tell. But as soon as

possible, rest assured."

She was silent now, confused, a little abashed, a mood entirely new to

her in my recollection of her many moods. Her hand still lay upon my

coarse canvas sleeve as though she had forgotten it. I bent now and

kissed it. "Harry," said she in a whisper, "don't you care for me any

more?"

"Go back to the camp, Helena," said I; "you know I do, but I've done

enough for you, and I'll do no more. All a coward can do to keep you

safe I have done, but I'm no such coward as to follow you around now

and dangle at your apron strings. It's good-by once more. What are

you," I demanded fiercely, once more, "that you should walk over my

soul again and again? Hasn't there got to be an end to that sort of

thing some time, and don't you think there is an end for me? Go back

and tell your aunt that you have won. And much joy may you both have

in your winning."




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