"Hurry! Hurry!" Pen said.
With a sigh he commenced to pull up the pegs that fastened down his tent.
It was soon bundled into the canoe together with his grub-box, his valise, and the odds and ends of his baggage.
"Get in," he said. "I'll paddle you back to the wharf."
Pen sat down in the bottom of the canoe while he perched on the stern seat wielding the paddle with the easy grace of long custom. She watched him through her lashes. The moon was behind him, silhouetting his strong frame and making a sort of aureole about his bare head.
The tide was high and the water had risen to within three feet of the floor of the wharf. Pen climbed out upon it.
"Well, is this good-by?" he said dolefully,
"No," said Pen breathlessly. Her instinct told her there was another struggle of wills ahead. "You're not going. I'm going to keep you here."
"What!" he cried. "Oh, if you knew how you tempted me!"
"Tempt you!" she said crossly. "This is no time for sentiment!"