d, with a brave
attempt to steady the quiver in her voice.

"With your permission, I'll smoke, Lisbeth."

"But the weir!" she cried; "have you forgotten the weir?"

"No," I answered, shaking my head; "it has a way of obtruding itself on
one's notice--"

"Oh, it sounds hateful--hateful!" she said with a shiver.

"Like a strong wind among trees!" I nodded, as I filled my pipe. We
were approaching a part of the river where it makes a sharp bend to the
right; and well I knew what lay beyond--the row of posts, painted
white, with the foam and bubble of seething water below. We should
round that bend in about ten minutes, I judged; long before then we
might see a boat, to be sure; if not--well, if the worst happened, I
could but do my best; in the meantime I would smoke a pipe; but I will
admit my fingers trembled as I struck a match.

"It sounds horribly close!" said Lisbeth.

"Sound is very deceptive, you know," I answered.

"Only last month a boat went over, and the man was drowned!" shuddered
Lisbeth.

"Poor chap!" I said. "Of course it's different at night--the river is
awfully deserted then, you know, and--"

"But it happened in broad day light!" said Lisbeth, almost in a
whisper. She was sitting half turned from me, her gaze fixed on the
bend of the river, and by chance her restless hand had found and begun
to fumble with the severed painter.

So we drifted on, watching the gliding banks, while every moment the
roar of the weir grew louder and more threatening.

"Dick," she said suddenly, "we can never pass that awful place without
oars!" and she began to tie knots in, the rope with fingers that shook
pitifully.

"Oh, I don't know!" I returned, with an assumption of ease I was very
far from feeling; "and then, of course, we are bound to meet a boat or
something--"

"But suppose we don't?"

"Oh, well, we aren't there yet--and er--let's talk of fish."

"Ah, Dick," she cried, "how can you treat the matter so lightly when we
may be tossing down there in that awful water so very soon! We can
never pass that weir without oars, and you know it, and--and--oh, Dick,
why did you do it--how could you have been so mad?"

"Do what?" I inquired, staring.

With a sudden gesture she rose to her knees and fronted me.

"This!" she cried, and held up the severed painter. "It has been cut!
Oh, Dick! Dick! how could you be so mad."

"Lisbeth!" I exclaimed, "do you mean to say that you think--"

"I know!"