eadful shoals.
Then you came, just as you have done before, and saved me. And," in a
wondering whisper, "I knew it was you!"

I did not ask her what she meant; I seemed to understand perfectly.

"Yes," I said.

"But I tell you I knew it was you," she repeated. "I did not know--I
did not suspect until the moment before the collision, before the launch
came in sight--then, all at once, I knew."

"Yes. That was when I knew."

She turned and gazed at me.

"YOU knew?" she gasped, hysterically. "Why--what do you mean?"

"I can't explain it. Just before your canoe broke through the fog I
knew, that is all."

It was unexplainable, but it was true. Call it telepathy or what you
will--I do not know what it was--I am certain only that, although I had
not recognized her voice, I had suddenly known who it was that would
come to me out of the fog. And she, too, had known! I felt again, with
an almost superstitious thrill, that feeling of helplessness which had
come over me that day of the fishing excursion when she rode through the
bushes to my side. It was as if she and I were puppets in the hands of
some Power which was amusing itself at our expense and would have its
way, no matter how we might fight against it.

She spoke as if she were struggling to awaken from a dream.

"But it can't be," she protested. "It is impossible. Why should you and
I--"

"I don't know . . . Unless--"

"Unless what?"

I closed my lips on the words that were on the tip of my tongue. That
reason was more impossible than all else.

"Nothing," I stammered.

She did not repeat her question. I saw her face, a dainty silhouette
against the foam alongside, turned away from me. I gazed at it until
I dared gaze no longer. Was I losing my senses altogether? I--Ros
Paine--the man whose very name was not his own? I must not think such
thoughts. I scarcely dared trust myself to speak and yet I knew that I
must. This silence was too dangerous. I took refuge in a commonplace.

"We are getting into smoother water," I said. "It is not as rough as it
was, do you think?"

If she heard the remark she ignored it. She did not turn to look at me.
After a moment she said, in a low voice:

"I can't understand."

I supposed her to be still thinking of our meeting in the fog.

"I cannot understand myself," I answered. "I presume it was a
coincidence, like our meeting at the pond."

She shook her head. "I did not mean that," she said. "I mean that I
can