s we lay on that shingly bar. Faster and faster they came. In
hopeless, helpless woe we watched them. We could do nothing. In a few
moments they would be past. With eyes of terror we followed them, tried
to make signals to them. O God, help us!

Suddenly they caught sight of that crazy boat of ours made of canvas and
willows. They poled the raft in close, then one of them saw those three
strange things writhing impotently on the sand. They were skeletons,
they were in rags, they were covered with vermin.-- * * *

We were saved; thank God, we were saved!

CHAPTER XVII

"Berna, we must get married."

"Yes, dearest, whenever you wish."

"Well, to-morrow."

She smiled radiantly; then her face grew very serious.

"What will I wear?" she asked plaintively.

"Wear? Oh, anything. That white dress you've got on--I never saw you
looking so sweet. You mind me of a picture I know of Saint Cecilia, the
same delicacy of feature, the same pure colouring, the same grace of
expression."

"Foolish one!" she chided; but her voice was deliciously tender, and her
eyes were love-lit. And indeed, as she stood by the window holding her
embroidery to the failing light, you scarce could have imagined a girl
more gracefully sweet. In a fine mood of idealising, my eyes rested on
her.

"Yes, fairy girl, that briar rose you are doing in the centre of your
little canvas hoop is not more delicate in the tinting than are your
cheeks; your hands that ply the needle so daintily are whiter than the
May blossoms on its border; those coils of shining hair that crown your
head would shame the silk you use for softness."

"Don't," she sighed; "you spoil me."

"Oh no, it's true, true. Sometimes I wish you were not so lovely. It
makes me care so much for you that--it hurts. Sometimes I wish you were
plain, then I would feel more sure of you. Sometimes I fear, fear some
one will steal you away from me."

"No, no," she cried; "no one ever will. There will never be any one but
you."

She came over to me, and knelt by my chair, putting her arms around me
prettily. The pure, sweet face looked up into mine.

"We have been happy here, haven't we, boy?" she asked.

"Exquisitely happy. Yet I have always been afraid."

"Of what, dearest?"

"I don't know. Somehow it seems too good to last."

"Well, to-morrow we'll be married."

"Yes, we should have done that a year ago. It's all been a mistake. It
didn't matter at first; nobody noticed