She saw how much moved he was, and she made a little gesture, as if she tossed something that weighed heavily, away.
“You see,” she interposed, “I’ve never done this kind of thing. I’m not a good Professor’s daughter. I didn’t like it. I went through an attack of the missionary spirit when I was fifteen, and had a Sunday-school class—ten big boys; all red, and eight of them freckled. We were naming classes one Sunday, and my boys whistled ‘Yankee Doodle’ when the superintendent prayed, and then asked if they might be called the lilies of the valley. I told them they weren’t fit to be called red sorrel. So after that I gave them up. I’ve never tried it since. I’m of no more use in the world—in this awful world—than the artificial pansies on my hat.”
Helen picked up her straw hat from the bottom of the boat, and tied it on her head, with a little sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh.
It was growing dark, fast. They were nearly at the float, now. Bayard laid down his oars. The headlights were leaping out all over the harbor. The wind had gone down with the sun. Boats crept in like tired people, through the sudden calm, to anchor for the night. The evening steamer came in from the city, and the long waves of her wake rolled upon the beach, and tossed the little boats. The sea drew a few long, deep breaths.
“The trouble with me, you see,” said Helen, “is just what I told you. I am not spiritual.”
“You are something better—you are altogether womanly!” said the young preacher quickly.
He seized his oars, and rowed in, as if they were shipwrecked. The old clam-digger was hauling his lobster-pots straight across their course. As Bayard veered to avoid him, he could be heard singing:—
“The woman’s ashore,
The child’s at the door,
The man’s at the wheel.
“Storm on the track,
Fog at the back,
Death at the keel.
“You, mate, or me—
Which shall it be?”—