"Why are you angry with me?" she exclaimed, sinking her head, and speaking with a little sob in her voice.
I was stirred to the heart by her broken tones, and answered—
"I am not angry. I could not be angry with you. I wish you to feel that what I have done, that whatever I may do is ... is...."
I faltered and stopped—an ignominious break down! though I think it concealed the true secret of my resentment.
I covered my confusion by taking her hand, and resting it on my arm again.
"Do you mean," she said, "that all you have done has been for my sake only—out of humanity—that you would do as much for anybody else?"
"No," said I, boldly.
Again she withdrew her hand and remained silent, and I made up my mind not to interrupt her thoughts.
After a few moments she went to the ship's side, and stood there; sometimes looking at the stars, and sometimes at the water that stretched away into the gloom in heavy breaking seas.
The wind was singing shrilly up aloft, but the sounds of the pumping ceased on a sudden.