provided for me. Yes, I am very idle. A year and a
half ago my only brother died. He had been very successful in life, and
he left me what I regard as a fortune, though it was only a small part
of what he had.'

The listener's heart throbbed. Without intending it, she pulled the
tiller so that the boat began to turn towards land.

'The left hand a little,' said Widdowson, smiling correctly. 'That's
right. Many days I don't leave home. I am fond of reading, and now I
make up for all the time lost in years gone by. Do you care for books?'

'I never read very much, and I feel very ignorant.'

'But that is only for want of opportunity, I'm sure.'

He glanced at the brown-paper parcel. Acting on an impulse which
perturbed her, Monica began to slip off the loosely-tied string, and to
unfold the paper.

'I thought it was a book!' exclaimed Widdowson merrily, when she had
revealed a part of her present.

'When you told me your name,' said Monica, 'I ought perhaps to have
told you mine. It's written here. My sisters gave me this to-day.'

She offered the little volume. He took it as though it were something
fragile, and--the sculls fixed under his elbows--turned to the fly-leaf.

'What? It is _your_ birthday?'

'Yes. I am twenty-one.'

'Will you let me shake hands with you?' His pressure of her fingers was
the lightest possible. 'Now that's rather a strange thing--isn't it?
Oh, I remember this book very well, though I haven't seen it or heard
of it for twenty years. My mother used to read it on Sundays. And it is
really your birthday? I am more than twice your age, Miss Madden.'

The last remark was uttered anxiously, mournfully. Then, as if to
reassure himself by exerting physical strength, he drove the boat along
with half a dozen vigorous strokes. Monica was rustling over the pages,
but without seeing them.

'I don't think,' said her companion presently, 'you are very well
contented with your life in that house of business.'

'No, I am not.'

'I have heard a good deal of the hardships of such a life. Will you
tell me something about yours?'

Readily she gave him a sketch of her existence from Sunday to Sunday,
but without indignation, and as if the subject had no great interest
for her.

'You must be very strong,' was Widdowson's comment.

'The lady I went to see this afternoon told me I looked ill.'

'Of course I can see the effects of overwork. My wonder is that you
endure it at all. Is that lady an