Let me," she said, taking hold of one of them. "Your hands are
too badly cut." He hesitated.

"Please," she said. "I can at least do the woman's part and prepare the
meal. Especially when you bring it to me."

He laughed and gave up the stones.

"I am desperately thirsty," she said, breaking open the shells.

"I feel as though my tongue were swelling fast," he admitted.

They dug the tiny clams from the shells, and ate for a few minutes in
silence, then she said: "I can't go any more of them."

He wondered if she were not hungry, but said nothing. After eating a few
more, he understood. Then he, too, stopped.

"I've got to find water," he said. He waited for her to speak.

At last she said: "I can see nothing that might indicate fresh water.
Where will you go?"

"Up the beach, I suppose."

"There are mountains up the beach, and back of us, too. You could never
find your way out." Her tone was despairing.

"True," he admitted.

There was a long pause. Then she said slowly: "It seems to be your only
hope, doesn't it? Well, I guess you had better go. God bless you!" she
concluded as though it were her last word.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he had been thinking and talking of
himself alone. The idea of parting from this woman who could see, whom
it seemed to him he had found as his own means of salvation, immediately
became impossible.

"I am going to take you with me," he stated quietly.

"You forget," she said, "I cannot walk."

He had forgotten it for the moment. Now it filled him with new terror.
He laid his hand on hers. "I can't help it," he said finally, "I can't
leave you. I will carry you."

"Oh, no!" Her protest was genuine.

He felt her fear that she would hamper him. "Don't be foolish," he said
as though he had known her for years, "I am not being gallant. This is
not a time for gallantry. I am simply being sensible. You can't sit
here, can you?"

"I can't help myself, can I? I can't walk."

"I can help it," he retorted.

"It would simply make your chance of escape impossible," she argued. "It
is preposterous. Why should you? Your life is worth to you as much as
mine is to me. I know what that means. I would not stay here if I could
help it. I would not sacrifice my life for yours. Neither shall you
sacrifice yours for mine."

"See here," he demanded, "who are you and where did you get that
attitude toward life?"

It was one he knew. It was the hard, relentless theory of the s