"I am glad of that," I cried.
She threw at me a look of fiery scorn. "You!" she hissed; "you! Get to your work and row."
In mournful humility I immediately obeyed, and we glided on our way again. For a long while I dared not look at her, and when I dared I could not see for the dark. But I knew that she was weeping, and though I longed to comfort her, I set my teeth and kept resolutely to my work, rowing hard in an effort to forget. It was she who interrupted me. I saw her white figure start suddenly erect.
"Stop!" she cried; "we have passed the place. Go back!"
I put the boat about, and slowly we returned. Soon at her word I shipped the sculls and allowed the craft to drift. The silence afterwards was full of brooding melancholy. The long, dark shadows on the river were interspersed with flecks of shapeless mist, which fancy shaped to spirit forms, and ghostly arms outstretched to beckon or to wave forbiddingly. How Marion fared I cannot guess, but I was wretched and sunk deep in gloom. It was a miserable ending to so glorious a day, and my heart ached strangely as I thought of it, although I did not reckon all my pain until I found relief at last in her command to seek the shore. We landed upon a long green sloping bank, fringed heavily with willows, to one of which I moored the boat. She left me at that occupation, and slowly climbed the bank. But her white dress shone out through the shadows of the grove, and soon I stood before her. She laid her hand upon my lips and drew me then into a very gloomy little dell entirely girt with trees. I wondered vaguely at her action and her cautious silence, yet as always I obeyed her wish, and waited on her mood.
For a moment she kept very still, and then she put her hands upon my breast.
"You love me," she said simply.
I clasped my hands on hers and answered, "Yes."
"How much?" she whispered—very low.
"More, Marion, than life."