“Oh, don’t do that,” he hastily interposed; “the apology will keep, and the daylight won’t.”
When they reached the river, he helped her into the boat, and taking off his coat, folded it for her to sit on.
Neither was talkative at first, both preferring their thoughts to idle conversation. Meg watched him warily, taking in the splendid muscular development of his arms and chest, the straight, clean-cut features in a face that in repose was somewhat grave and stern, but infinitely tender and charming when he smiled. She was wishing, as she gazed at him, that Fate had given her a brother like him.
As for Robert, with eyes on the setting sun, his reveries were of the life about to open for him. For the time being he had forgotten his companion, and was holding pleasurable communion with himself, absorbed in the contemplation of his usefulness when once he had entered upon that mission for which he had been always fitting himself. He was aroused by an almost inaudible sigh, and he glanced across at Meg with eyes which were as yet blind to emotion.
She was not looking at him now, and he watched her with satisfaction. She had puzzled and bewildered him ever since he had met her, and he had only occasionally had glimpses of her real character. There were times when he distinctly disapproved of her, and his training had been such that he considered it almost an imperative duty to tell her of it.
Then with a quick subtle change of manner she would do something, some little gracious act, that would cause him to repent of his harsher judgment. But through all the varied changes of her moods, she attracted him.
She had fallen into one of her silences, and sat looking out over the water with an expression so tender and childish, that for some reason he would have been unable to explain, a great wave of pity swept over him, and the longing to shelter her from harm became uppermost in his mind.
When she spoke, it was dreamily. “I do love the water, and the sunset, and the sound of the oars as they lap the waves.” Then, in a more sprightly manner,—“It has the effect of shaded lights and soft music. I am so good at such times! All my thoughts are uplifting. Do you feel that way?”
Amused by her vagaries, he nodded, and the encouragement started her off again: “I almost weep to think how noble I am. Nothing that is petty or mean has any connection with me. Even Aunt Amelia I view through that rosy mist, and conjure up the kind things she might have done, the tender words she might have spoken,—and I think with a swelling heart that I will try to appreciate those ‘might have beens,’—that I will so conduct myself as to make them possible.”
“And then?” as she paused.