was in two minds whether to laugh or to swear,--for I had never
given her flowers,--when she settled the question for me by raising the
crimson mass and bestowing it upon the flood.

A sudden puff of wind brought the sail around, hiding his fallen
countenance. The wind freshened, coming from the bay, and the boat
was off like a startled deer. When I next saw him he had recovered his
equanimity, and, with a smile upon his rugged features, was waving us
a farewell. I looked at the beauty opposite me, and, with a sudden
movement of pity for him, mateless, stood up and waved to him vigorously
in turn.

CHAPTER IV IN WHICH I AM LIKE TO REPENT AT LEISURE

WHEN we had passed the mouth of the Chickahominy, I broke the silence,
now prolonged beyond reason, by pointing to the village upon its bank,
and telling her something of Smith's expedition up that river, ending by
asking her if she feared the savages.

When at length she succeeded in abstracting her attention from the
clouds, it was to answer in the negative, in a tone of the supremest
indifference, after which she relapsed into her contemplation of the
weather.

Further on I tried again. "That is Kent's, yonder. He brought his wife
from home last year. What a hedge of sunflowers she has planted! If you
love flowers, you will find those of paradise in these woods."

No answer.

Below Martin-Brandon we met a canoe full of Paspaheghs, bound upon a
friendly visit to some one of the down-river tribes; for in the bottom
of the boat reposed a fat buck, and at the feet of the young men lay
trenchers of maize cakes and of late mulberries. I hailed them, and when
we were alongside held up the brooch from my hat, then pointed to the
purple fruit. The exchange was soon made; they sped away, and I placed
the mulberries upon the thwart beside her.

"I am not hungry," she said coldly. "Take them away."

I bit my lip, and returned to my place at the tiller. This rose was set
with thorns, and already I felt their sting. Presently she leaned back
in the nest I had made for her. "I wish to sleep," she said haughtily,
and, turning her face from me, pillowed her head upon her arms.

I sat, bent forward, the tiller in my hand, and stared at my wife in
some consternation. This was not the tame pigeon, the rosy, humble,
domestic creature who was to make me a home and rear me children. A sea
bird with broad white wings swooped down upon the water, now dark and
ridged, rested the