you were; I was
tremendously anxious about you. And you weren't afraid? Did you sleep?"

"Not much. You see," she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before I
retired, and it was such an important--and surprising--communication
that I couldn't go to sleep at once."

"A letter? A letter last night? Who--What? You don't mean my letter? The
one I put under your door? You didn't get THAT last night!"

"Oh, yes, I did."

"But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a light
anywhere. I made sure of that before I came over."

"I know. I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in the
dark, looking out at the storm. Then I saw some one coming up the hill,
and it was you."

"Then you saw me push it under the door?"

"Yes. What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed it
under?"

"Me? . . . Oh," hastily, "I wanted to make sure it was--er--under. And
you found it and read it--then?"

"Of course. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and I was curious,
naturally."

"Ruth!"

"I was."

"Nonsense! You knew what it must be. Surely you did. Now, truly, didn't
you? Didn't you, dear?"

"Why should I? . . . Oh, your sleeve is wet. You're soaking wet from
head to foot."

"Well, I presume that was to be expected. This water out here is
remarkably damp, you know, and I was in it for some time. I should have
been in it yet if it hadn't been for you."

"Don't!" with a shudder, "don't speak of it. When I saw you fall into
that tide I . . . But there! you mustn't stay here another moment. Go
home and put on dry things. Go at once!"

"Dry things be hanged! I'm going to stay right here--and look at you."

"You're not. Besides, I am wet, too. And I haven't had my breakfast."

"Haven't you? Neither have I." He forgot that he had attempted to have
one. "But I don't care," he added recklessly. Then, with a flash of
inspiration, "Why can't we breakfast together? Invite me, please."

"No, I shall not. At least, not until you go back and change your
clothes."

"To hear is to obey. 'I go, but I return,' as the fellow in the play
observes. I'll be back in just fifteen minutes."

He was back in twelve, and, as to make the long detour about the
marshes would, he felt then, be a wicked waste of time and the marshes
themselves were covered with puddles left by the tide, his "dry things"
were far from dry when he arrived. But she did not notice, and he was
too happy to care, so it was all right. T