b the lines of her tall figure, nor lessen the
pale red and white which the sea breeze had stung into her cheeks. She
did not smile, and her eyes, I say, looked steadily and seriously into
mine.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, frowning slightly, as it seemed to
me.

"Everything in the world is wrong with me, as you know very well,"
said I. "Am I not a poor man? Am I not an unsuccessful lover? Am I not
a failure under every test which you can apply? Am I not a coward--did
you not tell me so yourself?"

Her eyes grew damp slowly. "I didn't mean it," said she.

"Then why did you say it?"

"It was long before--that was before last night, Harry. You forget."

"What if it was?" I demanded. "I was the same man then that I was last
night."

"I didn't mean it, Harry," said she, her voice low. Her hand was still
on my arm. Her eye now was cast down, the tip of her toe was tracing a
circle on the wet sand where we stood.

"I didn't think," said she, after a little while.

"I presume not," said I coldly. "Sometimes women do not stop to think.
You have not stopped to think that there is a limit even to what my
love would stand, Helena. Now, much as I love you--and I never loved
you so much as I do now--I'll never again ask you for what you can not
give me. I've been rubbed the wrong way all I can stand, and I'll not
have it any more. I've brought you here, yes, and I'm sorry enough for
it. But I'm going to fix all that now, soon as I can."

"What do you mean, Harry?" she asked quietly.

"Yonder, across the bay," said I, pointing, "runs a channel. That's
the Cheniere. I presume the lighthouse boats come from in there. Maybe
there'll be one down after the storm in a day or so. He'll take out a
message, and get it on some boat bound for Morgan City, perhaps."

"And what then?"

"Why, I shall send out any message you like, beside my own message to
the parents of these boys of mine. And I'll send a message, too, to my
friend, Manning."

She turned her eyes where I pointed once more, this time seemingly
northward across the bay. "Yonder is still another channel," said I,
"not twenty miles from where we stand. It runs back to the live-oak
islands where my friend Manning has his plantation. If the tide serves
and we can get the yacht afloat, it won't take us long to get in
there. Once there, you are safe; and once there, I say good-by. Judge
for yourself whether or not this is the last time."

"And when will that be