"Good heavens!" he muttered, dashed. "I _have_ slept!"

"You earned your right to.... You needed it far more than I." Her eyes
shone, warm with kindness.

She swayed almost imperceptibly toward him. Her voice was low pitched
and a trifle broken with emotion:

"You saved my life--"

"I--? Oh, that was only what any other man--"

"None other did!"

"Please don't speak of it--I mean, consider it that way," he stammered.
"What I want to know is, where are we?"

Her reply was more distant. "On an island, somewhere. It's uninhabited,
I think."

He could only echo in bewilderment: "An island...! Uninhabited...!"
Dismay assailed him. He got up, after a little struggle overcoming the
resistance of stiff and sore limbs, and stood with a hand on the coaming
of the dismantled cat-boat, raking the island with an incredulous stare.

"But those houses--?"

"There's no one in any of them, that I could find." She stirred from her
place and offered him a hand. "Please help me up."

He turned eagerly, with a feeling of chagrin that she had needed to ask
him. For an instant he had both her hands, warm and womanly, in his
grasp, while she rose by his aid, and for an instant longer--possibly by
way of reward. Then she disengaged them with gentle firmness.

She stood beside him so tall and fair, so serenely invested with the
flawless dignity of her womanhood that he no longer thought of the
incongruity of her grotesque garb.

"You've been up there?" he asked, far too keenly interested to scorn the
self-evident.

She gave a comprehensive gesture, embracing the visible prospect. "All
over.... When I woke, I thought surely ... I went to see, found nothing
living except the sheep and some chickens and turkeys in the farmyard.
Those nearer buildings--nothing there except desolation, ruin, and the
smell of last year's fish. I think fishermen camp out here at times. And
the farm-house--apparently it's ordinarily inhabited. Evidently the
people have gone away for a visit somewhere. It gives the impression of
being a home the year round. There isn't any boat--"

"No boat!"

"Not a sign of one, that I can find--except this wreck." She indicated
the cat-boat.

"But we can't do anything with this," he expostulated.

The deep, wide break in its side placed it beyond consideration, even if
it should prove possible to remedy its many other lacks.

"No. The people who live here must have a boat--I saw a mooring-buoy out
there"--with