“It’s been a full day’s work,” he added; and even in this human crisis he thought of the fish he had caught, of “the big trouble,” he had been thinking out as Osterhaut had said, as well as of the girl that he was saving.
“I always have luck when I go fishing,” he added presently. “I can take her back to Lebanon,” he continued with a quickening look. “She’ll be all right in a jiffy. I’ve got room for her in my buggy—and room for her in any place that belongs to me,” he hastened to reflect with a curious, bashful smile.
“It’s like a thing in a book,” he murmured, as he neared the waiting people on the banks of Carillon, and the ringing of the vesper bells came out to him on the evening air.
“Is she dead?” some one whispered, as eager hands reached out to secure his skiff to the bank.
“As dead as I am,” he answered with a laugh, and drew Fleda’s canoe up alongside his skiff.
He had a strange sensation of new life, as, with delicacy and gentleness, he lifted her up in his strong arms and stepped ashore.
CHAPTER II. THE WHISPER FROM BEYOND
Ingolby had a will of his own, but it had never been really tried against a woman’s will. It was, however, tried sorely when Fleda came to consciousness again in his arms and realized that a man’s face was nearer to hers than any man’s had ever been except that of her own father. Her eyes opened slowly, and for the instant she did not understand, but when she did, the blood stole swiftly back to her neck and face and forehead, and she started in dismay.
“Put me down,” she whispered faintly.