A figure, partly hidden by the cottonwood and the alders, stepped forward at this moment and prepared to moor the boat for her.
Was it instinct that made her turn her head then, or was she merely looking to see how much farther she had to row in? A frightened cry escaped her at what she saw, and the colour ebbed from her face, leaving it ghastly white.
"Katherine, did you take me for a ghost?" asked the voice of Jervis
Ferrars.
"I think so," she said faintly, then sent the boat with a jerk against the mooring post, where he tied it up for her.
"Did you really think we had gone down, or had you the cheerful faith of Mrs. Jenkin?"
"I—I am afraid that I had no faith at all," she said with an effort, and never guessed how complete was her self-betrayal.
He looked at her keenly, was apparently satisfied with what he saw, then said cheerfully: "Will you row me up to Astor M'Kree's, or, rather, permit me to row you? I want to go and assure him that the Mary is quite safe, and the soundest boat that ever sailed the Bay. Shall we leave this luggage here, or row it up river for the sake of having a load?"
"Rowing is quite sufficient exercise without having an unnecessary load," replied Katherine, with a shake of her head, as she handed him the bundles to place on the bank. She was trembling so that she could hardly trust herself to speak, and was horribly afraid of breaking down like a schoolgirl, and crying from sheer joyfulness.
When the bundles were all out, Jervis got in, took the oars, and sent the boat's head round for up river again, then pulled steadily for a few minutes without speaking.
A boat is an awkward place for a person afflicted with self-consciousness. Katherine would have been thankful for some shelter in which to hide her face just then, but, having none, she rushed into nervous speech instead.