“In my boat,” he answered consciously.
“The same boat?”
“Yes. I’ve had her put to rights. She wasn’t much damaged.”
She was silent a moment, while he stood looking down at her in the chair into which she had sunk. “Does it take you long?”
“Oh, no. It’s shorter than it is by land. I shall have the tide with me both ways. I can make the run there and back in a couple of hours.”
“Two hours?”
“Yes.”
A sudden impulse, unreasoned and unreasonable, in which there seemed hope of some such atonement, or expiation, as the same ascetic nature would once have found in fasting or the scourge, prevailed with her. She rose. “Mr. Libby,” she panted, “if you will let me, I should like to go with you in your boat. Do you think it will be rough?”
“No, it’s a light breeze; just right. You needn’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. I should not care if it were rough! I should not care if it stormed! I hope it—I will ask mother to stay with Mrs. Maynard.”