The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. . "Because it's not like you," was her answer. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. I know he is dead. But supposing he is? Supposing he made but one misstep? Your island would be a haven of security. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air.
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