Lawrence's customary mode of transplanting Ruth from dry land to his little craft, was to catch her light figure in his stalwart arms and seat her in the stern "before she knew where she was," as she would say with terrific frowns. To-night, however, he soberly—did she fancy it was even a trifle absently?—assisted her in with his right hand. That this new order of things had not escaped her notice, some look in her face made him uncomfortably conscious.
"Is your majesty well placed?" he asked, affecting to laugh as he took the sculls and paddled out into mid-stream.
"We should be so," she replied with mock gravity, drawing up the rudder cords. "Thanks to your lordship's ceremony in seating us."
"That," returned he, breaking into a smile of unfeigned amusement at her lofty air, "is no more than what is due to your majesty's supreme rank from your majesty's most loyal subject."
"We find that good hearing," said Queen Ruth, "since we are convinced that my Lord Lawrence Lee always feels in his heart what his speech professes."
A troubled heart.
Her words were jestingly uttered; but the young man bit his lip hard; and his cheek grew white, as if some sharp sudden pain had stung him.
"Lawrence!" cried Ruth, starting and bending forward, "what is the matter? You are ill."
"Not I, dear heart," replied he, sweeping one hand hurriedly across his face.
"You are so pale," she insisted.