“For you, Martha,” he said. “I bought it for you to-day.”
“Oh, Henry, a canoe for us!”
“I bought it for you—this morning. Don’t you see, Martha—that’s what I’ve been doing all these weeks—learning to canoe so I can take you out.”
“Oh, Henry—dear!” Martha put her hand timidly upon his arm.
“I’m an expert canoeist, now, Martha—you’ll see.”
In the dimness of the boat-house he put a sturdy arm about her waist; he could feel she was trembling.
“I’ll take you out now,” he went on. “Wait—I’ve got some cushions.”
He was back in an instant with his arms full of pillows, which he tossed carelessly into the canoe with the paddles. Then with ostentatious skill he slid it down into the water, and tenderly placed his silent, trembling little wife in the bottom upon the cushions, so that she would be at his feet as he sat in its stern.
Out upon the lake he paddled with lusty strokes, straight into the shining ribbon of moonlight. Martha lay quiet, gazing up at him as he silently bent to his work. Music floated to them over the water. Another canoe passed, with a boy and girl in it—a girl who reclined in the bottom playing a guitar. Henry—with a great consciousness of equality—waved to them in friendly greeting.
Then all at once he shipped his paddle and leaned down to his wife, letting the canoe slip forward unguided. Her eyes were wet and shining; her hand stole upward to meet his.