“Then good-by again.” In a moment he was in his canoe, for he had come alone, and was sturdily poling up the stream. The well-knit figure in the becoming guise of jacket and knickerbockers held her eye until it was lost around the river curves. Then she said aloud:
“That is a very nice man.”
The man in the canoe said to himself:
“Please God I shall marry that woman.”
An hour ago she was Miss Lyndsay and as other women had been to him. But now—he smiled.
When Miss Lyndsay had made her own little statement, she looked about her shyly of a sudden, as if fearful lest some one might have overheard her, and, reassured by the knowledge that she was alone, added:
“I am not as sorry as I was.” The why of this last decision she did not seek to analyze, but dropped into the hammock, and, lulled by its motion, by and by fell asleep.
After awhile came Lyndsay on tip-toe, and, smiling, kissed her, and then again before she quite waked up.
“A pair—two pair—of gloves,” he cried.
At this she sat up, with a faint blush on her cheek, fetched from far away out of dreamland. I do not know of what she was dreaming.