she
demurred.

"You need it yourself."

"No, I'm all right. Please take it."

So she shyly took it, dropped it into her pocket, and rested her
shapely little hand on it. "How delightful!" she said presently,
shifting it to the other pocket. "Don't you really need it, Mr. Marche?"

"No. Does it warm you?"

"It is delicious. I _was_ a little chilled." She drew out one bare hand
and looked at it thoughtfully. Then, with a little sigh, and quite
unconscious of his gaze, she touched her lips to the wind-roughened
skin, as though in atonement for her maltreatment of herself.

Even as it now was the shape and beauty of the hand held Marche
fascinated; it was so small, yet so firm and strong and competent, so
full of youthful character, such a delicately fashioned little hand,
and so pathetic, somehow--this woman's hand, with its fineness of
texture and undamaged purity under the chapped and cruelly bruised,
tender skin.

She pocketed it again, looking out from under the wind-blown hair
clustering from the edge of her shooting hood. "Blue-bird weather," she
said, in her low and very sweet voice. "If no birds swing in by ten
o'clock we might as well sleep until four."

Marche leaned forward and scanned the water and sky alternately. Nothing
stirred, save their lazily preening decoys. Uncle Dudley was still
conversing with his wife at intervals; the swans and the cygnets fed or
worried their leash snaps; the ducks paddled, or dozed on the stools,
balanced on one leg.

Far away, on Golden Bar, half a thousand wild geese floated, feeding;
beyond, like snowflakes dotting the water, a few wild swans drifted.
There were ducks, too, off Starfish Island again, but nothing flying in
the blue except a slow hawk or some wandering gull, or now and then an
eagle--sometimes a mature bird, in all the splendor of white head and
tail, sometimes a young bird, seemingly larger, and all gray from crest
to shank.

Once an eagle threatened the decoys, and Uncle Dudley swore so lustily
at him, and every duck and goose set up such a clamor, that Molly Herold
picked up her gun for the emergency. But the magnificent eagle, beating
up into the wind with bronze wings aglisten, suddenly sheered off; and,
as he passed, Marche could see his bold head turn toward the blind where
the sun had flashed him its telegraphic warning on the barrel of Molly's
lifted gun.

"Fine!" he whispered. "Splendid! I'm glad you didn't kill him."

"I'm glad I did