sitting quietly polishing my boots
and talking to myself when I became aware of an object floating in the
sea close beside the raft. Judge of my feelings when I realized it to be
the inanimate body of a girl. Hastily finishing my boots and stopping
talking to myself, I made shift as best I could to draw the unhappy girl
towards me with a hook.

After several ineffectual attempts I at last managed to obtain a hold of
the girl's clothing and drew her on to the raft.

She was still unconscious. The heavy lifebelt round her person must (so
I divined) have kept her afloat after the wreck. Her clothes were
sodden, so I reasoned, with the sea-water.

On a handkerchief which was still sticking into the belt of her dress, I
could see letters embroidered. Realizing that this was no time for
hesitation, and that the girl's life might depend on my reading her
name, I plucked it forth. It was Edith Croyden.

As vigorously as I could I now set to work to rub her hands. My idea was
(partly) to restore her circulation. I next removed her boots, which
were now rendered useless, as I argued, by the sea-water, and began to
rub her feet.

I was just considering what to remove next, when the girl opened her
eyes. "Stop rubbing my feet," she said.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "you mistake me."

I rose, with a sense of pique which I did not trouble to conceal, and
walked to the other end of the raft. I turned my back upon the girl and
stood looking out upon the leaden waters of the Caribbean Sea. The ocean
was now calm. There was nothing in sight.

I was still searching the horizon when I heard a soft footstep on the
raft behind me, and a light hand was laid upon my shoulder. "Forgive
me," said the girl's voice.

I turned about. Miss Croyden was standing behind me. She had, so I
argued, removed her stockings and was standing in her bare feet. There
is something, I am free to confess, about a woman in her bare feet which
hits me where I live. With instinctive feminine taste the girl had
twined a piece of seaweed in her hair. Seaweed, as a rule, gets me every
time. But I checked myself.

"Miss Croyden," I said, "there is nothing to forgive."

At the mention of her name the girl blushed for a moment and seemed
about to say something, but stopped.

"Where are we?" she queried presently.

"I don't know," I answered, as cheerily as I could, "but I am going to
find out."

"How brave you are!" Miss Croyden exclaimed.

"Not at all," I