"Then engage that little pea-green boat. It is a nice one," she said, pointing to a frail skiff moored near them.
"That, my dearest Mary? Why, that is a mere egg-shell! It could not live in rough water. And if this gentle breeze should rise into a wind—"
"Are you afraid?" she inquired, with provoking sarcasm.
"I say again not for myself, but for you."
"And I say again that there can be no ground of fear for me. I say again I can row like a squaw and swim like a duck. There! Now will you get the boat I want?"
"Yes, my darling, I will. And I will also take the precaution to hire the man in charge of it to help us row, in case of accidents."
"No, no, no; I won't have the man! He would spoil all our pleasure. I want you and myself to go out alone together, and have no interloper with us."
"But, my beloved—"
"I don't believe you love me at all, when you want a great hulking boatman to be in the boat with us, watching us," said the bride, with pretty childish petulance.
"Not love you? Oh, heaven of heavens! You know how I love you—how I adore you—how I worship you!" he whispered, earnestly.