with you, priest or no priest, minister or no minister; go with you, now,
anywhere! Dave! Dave! Listen to me! You say I did you wrong in the
past--and I did--let me make up for it, let me atone. If I did not
rightly measure love before, let me show that I can now."

She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing. "And
you _do_ care for me. You _do_ care for me. Think! The long years I
have waited, suffered! You can never know!" He stooped and raised her
to her feet.

"Listen," he commanded, opening the door and lifting her bodily outside.
"It cannot be. We are not alone to be considered. You must go. I wish
you a safe journey. You will find it tougher work when you get up by the
Sixty Mile, but you have the best boatmen in the world, and will get
through all right. Will you say good-by?"

Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly.
"If--if--if Winapie should--" She quavered and stopped.

But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, "Yes." Then struck
with the enormity of it, "It cannot be conceived. There is no
likelihood. It must not be entertained."

"Kiss me," she whispered, her face lighting. Then she turned and went
away.

* * * * *

"Break camp, Pierre," she said to the boatman, who alone had remained
awake against her return. "We must be going."