"I think I loved you from the first day I saw you on the ship. And, then, I lost you. I found you again by a miracle, and lost you again. I found you here by another miracle, but this time I am not going to lose you. Do you think I'm going to stand by and see you taken from me by—by—"
He took her hand.
"Molly, you can't love him. It isn't possible. If I thought you did, I wouldn't try to spoil your happiness. I'd go away. But you don't. You can't. He's nothing. Molly!"
The canoe rocked as he leaned toward her.
"Molly!"
She said nothing; but, for the first time, her eyes met his, clear and unwavering. He could read fear in them, fear—not of himself, of something vague, something he could not guess at. But they shone with a light that conquered the fear as the sun conquers fire; and he drew her to him, and kissed her again and again, murmuring incoherently.
Suddenly, she wrenched herself away, struggling like some wild thing. The boat plunged.
"I can't," she cried in a choking voice. "I mustn't. Oh, I can't!"
He stretched out a hand, and clutched at the rail than ran along the wall. The plunging ceased. He turned. She had hidden her face, and was sobbing, quietly, with the forlorn hopelessness of a lost child.
He made a movement toward her, but drew back. He felt dazed.