Bonnibel settled the sum she had named upon her, but the devoted girl still remained with her in her old position. Summer came with birds and flowers, and gentle breezes, then waned and faded, as do all things beautiful, and autumn winds blew coldly over the sea.
One cool yet sunny afternoon the lovely widow went down to the shore for her accustomed row in her pretty namesake, the Bonnibel, which had been newly repaired and trimmed.
To her surprise, the little bark was not there, rocking idly about at its own sweet will.
"Who can have borrowed it?" she wondered, sitting down on the sands to watch for its return.
But after awhile her hands dropped into her lap and clasped each other loosely; she fell into a fit of musing, and forgot to watch the sea for return of her truant bark. There was a vague doubt and trouble tugging at her heart-strings as she recalled some lines she had loved long ago:
"And yet I know past all doubting, truly,
A knowledge greater than grief can dim—
I know as he loved, he will love me duly,
Yea, better, even better than I love him.
"And as I walk by the vast calm river,
The awful river so dread to see,
I say, 'Thy breadth and thy depth forever
Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.'"
The keel of the Bonnibel grated suddenly on the shore; the boatman sprang out by her side.
She looked up into the dark eyes of Leslie Dane.