Philip did not dip his paddle. He
looked at the girl who sat so near to him, her head bent over in
pretence of seeing that all was right, the sun melting away into rich
colours in the thick coils of her hair. There filled him an
overwhelming desire to reach over and touch the shining braids, to feel
the thrill of their warmth and sweetness, and something of this desire
was in his face when she looked up at him, a look of gentle
thankfulness disturbed a little by anxiety in her eyes. He had not
noticed fully how wonderfully blue her eyes were until now, and soft
and tender they were when free of the excitement of fear and mental
strain. They were more than ever like the wild wood violets, flecked
with those same little brown spots which had made him think sometimes
that the flowers were full of laughter. There was something of
wistfulness, of thought for him in her eyes now, and in pure joy he
laughed.

"Why do you laugh?" she asked.

"Because I am happy," he replied, and sent the canoe ahead with a first
deep stroke. "I have never been happier in my life. I did not know that
it was possible to feel as I do."

"And I am just beginning to feel my selfishness," she said. "You have
thought only of me. You are making a wonderful sacrifice for me. You
have nothing to gain, nothing to expect but the things that make me
shudder. And I have thought of myself alone, selfishly, unreasonably.
It is not fair, and yet this is the only way that it can be."

"I am satisfied," he said. "I have nothing much to sacrifice, except
myself."

She leaned forward, with her chin in the cup of her hands, and looked
at him steadily.

"You have people?"

"None who cares for me. My mother was the last. She died before I came
North."

"And you have no sisters--or brothers?"

"None living."

For a moment she was silent. Then she said gently, looking into his
eyes:

"I wish I had known--that I had guessed--before I let you come this
far. I am sorry now--sorry that I didn't send you away. You are
different from other men I have known--and you have had your suffering.
And now--I must hurt you again. It wouldn't be so bad if you didn't
care for me. I don't want to hurt you--because--I believe in you."

"And is that all--because you believe me?"

She did not answer. Her hands clasped at her breast. She looked beyond
him to the shore they were leaving.

"You must leave me," she said then, and her voice was as lifeless as
his had been.