to think, like you, that he
wouldn't have done it unless he thought it was right. I know mighty
well he wasn't afraid of me. Oh, you needn't laugh, young man. There
ARE people in that fix, plenty of 'em. No, I didn't come to talk 'Lane.'
That bird is dead. I came, first of all, to thank you for what you did
for my daughter last night."

Mother turned her head and looked at him.

"For your daughter? Last night? Roscoe, what does he mean?"

"Nothing, Mother, nothing," I said, hastily. "I was unlucky enough to
run the Comfort into Miss Colton's canoe in the bay yesterday afternoon
in the fog. Fortunately I got her into the launch and--and--"

"And saved her from drowning, then and a dozen times afterward. He
hasn't told you, Mrs. Paine? No, I can see that he hasn't. All right, I
will. Paine, if your ingrowing modesty won't stand the pressure you had
better leave the room. This is about what happened, Mrs. Paine, as Mabel
tells it."

I tried to prevent him, but it was no use. He ignored me altogether and
went on to tell of the collision in the fog, the voyage across the
bay, and my telephone from the lighthouse. The story, as he told it,
magnified what he called my coolness and common-sense to a ridiculous
extent. I lost patience as I listened.

"Mr. Colton," I interrupted, "this is silly. Mother, the whole affair
was more my fault than my good judgment. If I had anchored when it first
happened we should have been home in an hour, instead of drifting all
night."

"Why didn't you anchor, then?" asked Colton.

"Because I--I--"

I stopped short. I could not tell him why I did not anchor. He laughed
aloud.

"That's all right," he said. "I guess Mabel's story is near enough to
the truth for all practical purposes. Mrs. Paine," with a sudden change
to seriousness, "you can understand why I have come here this morning.
If it had not been for your son's pluck, and cool head, and good
judgment I--Mrs. Colton and I might have been--God knows in what state
we might have been to-day! God knows! I can't think of it."

His voice trembled. Mother put out a hand and took mine.

"Roscoe," she said, "Roscoe."

"So I came to thank him," went on our visitor. "This isn't the first
time he has done something of the sort. It seems almost as if he--But
never mind that. I'm not going to be foolish. Your son and I, Mrs.
Paine, have been fighting each other most of the summer. That's all
right. It was a square fight and, until this n