Dr. Kemp sat opposite her—and Mrs. Levice slept.
Slowly and more slowly sped the tiny boat; long gentle strokes touched the water; and presently the oars lay idle in their locks,—they were unconsciously drifting. The water dipped and lapped about the sides; the tender woman’s voice across the water stole to them, singing of love; their eyes met—and Mrs. Levice slept.
Ever, in the after time, when Ruth heard that song, she was again rocking in the frail row-boat upon the lovely river, and a man’s deep, grave eyes held hers as if they would never let them go, till under his worshipping eyes her own filled with slow ecstatic tears.
“Doctor,” called a startled voice, “row out; I am right under the trees.”
They both started. Mrs. Levice was, without doubt, awake. They had drifted into a cove, and she was cowering from the over-hanging boughs.
“I do not care to be Absalomed; where were your eyes, Ruth?” she complained, as Kemp pushed out with a happy, apologetic laugh. “Did not you see where we were going?”
“No,” she answered a little breathlessly; “I believe I am growing far-sighted.”
“It must be time to sight home now,” said her mother; “I am quite chilly.”
In five minutes Kemp had grounded the boat and helped Mrs. Levice out. When he turned for Ruth, she had already sprung ashore and had started up the slope; for the first time the oars lay forgotten in the bottom of the boat.
“Wait for us, Ruth,” called Mrs. Levice, and the slight white figure stood still till they came up.