“Hold tight,” he said, reaching down.
With a little laugh he lifted the canoe and its occupant far up on to the bank.
“Despite my white hairs,” he said, with a tap of both hands on his broad chest.
“I attach no importance to them,” she answered, taking his proffered hand and stepping over the light bulwark. “I have gray ones myself. I am getting old too.”
“How old?” he asked, looking down at her with his old bluntness.
“Twenty-eight.”
“Ah, they are summers,” he said; “mine have turned to winters. Will you sit here where I was sitting? See, I will spread this rug for your white dress.”
Maggie paused, looking through the trees toward the sinking sun. The light fell on her face and showed one or two lines which had not been there before. It showed a patient tenderness in the steady eyes which had always been there—which Catrina had noticed in the stormy days that were past.
“I cannot stay long,” she replied. “I am with the Faneaux at Brandon for a few days. They dine at seven.”
“Ah! her ladyship is a good friend of mine. You remember her charity ball in town, when it was settled that you should come to Osterno. A strange world, mademoiselle—a very strange world, so small, and yet so large and bare for some of us!”