at each side which would
have smashed her to pieces. Luckily he had had a couple of days in which
to learn the vagaries of his craft. In descending a swift current one
has to bear in mind that any boat begins to answer her helm some yards
ahead of the spot where the impulse is applied.

As the day wore on he bethought himself that "one sleep" was an elastic
term of distance, and in order to avoid the possibility of being carried
over the falls he adopted the rule of landing at the head of each rapid,
and walking down the shore to pick his channel, and to make sure that
there was smooth water below. They had been told that there was no rapid
immediately above the falls, that the water slipped over without giving
warning, but Stonor dismissed this into the limbo of red-skin romancing.
He did not believe it possible for a river to go over a fall without
some preliminary disturbance.

As it happened, dusk descended on them in the middle of a smooth reach,
and they made camp for the last time on the descent, pitching the three
tents under the pines in the form of a little square open on the river
side. Clare was very silent during the meal, and Stonor's gaiety sounded
hollow in his own ears. They turned in immediately after eating.

Stonor awoke in the middle of the night without being able to tell what
had awakened him. He had a sense that something was wrong. It was a
breathless cool night. Under the pines it was very dark, but outside of
their shadow the river gleamed wanly. Such sounds as he heard, the
murmur of a far-off rapid, and a whisper in the topmost boughs of the
pines, conveyed a suggestion of empty immeasurable distances. The fire
had burned down to its last embers.

Suddenly he became aware of what was the matter; Clare was weeping. It
was the merest hint of a sound, softer than falling leaves, just a catch
of the breath that escaped her now and then. Stonor lay listening with
bated breath, as if terrified of losing that which tore his heartstrings
to hear. He was afflicted with a ghastly sense of impotence. He had no
right to intrude on her grief. Yet how could he lie supine when she was
in trouble, and make believe not to hear? He could not lie still. He got
up, taking no care to be quiet, and built up the fire. She could not
know, of course, that he had heard that broken breath. Perhaps she would
speak to him. Or, if she could not speak, perhaps she would take comfort
from the mere fact of his waking pre