One of their favorite drives was through the pine woods to the
point on which stood the lighthouse, and on one of these
excursions they explored a forgotten wood road and came out upon
a cliff. The cliff overlooked the sea, and below it was a jumble
of rocks with which the waves played hide and seek. On many
afternoons and mornings they returned to this place, and, while
Latimer read to her, Helen would sit with her back to a tree and
toss pine-cones into the water. Sometimes the poets whose works
he read made love so charmingly that Latimer was most grateful to
them for rendering such excellent first aid to the wounded, and
into his voice he would throw all that feeling and music that
from juries and mass meetings had dragged tears and cheers and
votes.

But when his voice became so appealing that it no longer was
possible for any woman to resist it, Helen would exclaim
excitedly: "Please excuse me for interrupting, but there is a
large spider--" and the spell was gone.

One day she exclaimed: "Oh!" and Latimer patiently lowered the
"Oxford Book of Verse," and asked: "What is it, NOW?"

"I'm so sorry," Helen said, "but I can't help watching that
Chapman boy; he's only got one reef in, and the next time he jibs
he'll capsize, and he can't swim, and he'll drown. I told his
mother only yesterday--"

"I haven't the least interest in the Chapman boy," said Latimer,
"or in what you told his mother, or whether he drowns or not! I'm
a drowning man myself!"