grave grey eyes with which he had looked at her when he bade her
good-bye. There was no fever in them, and, as it seemed to her, no lack
of sense and thought. Yet he only looked at her gravely, and then seemed
to sleep again.

The girl sprang upright upon the bank and wrung her hands together. It
came to her with sudden clearness what had been done. Had Toyner told
his tale, she could hardly have known it more clearly. Her father, had
tried to murder Bart; her father had tied him in his own place; it was
her father who had escaped alone with the boat. It was he himself, and
no apparition, who had peered in upon her through the window. She was
wrought up into a strong glow of indignation against the baseness that
would turn upon a deliverer, against the cruelty of the revenge taken.
No wonder that miserable father had not dared to enter her house again
or to seek further succour from her! All her pity, all the strength of
her generosity, went out to the man who had ventured so much on his
behalf and been betrayed. That unspoken reverence for Toyner, a sense of
the contrast between him and her father and the other men whom she knew,
which had been growing upon her, now culminated in an impulse of
devotion. A new faculty opened within her nature, a new mine of wealth.

The thin white-faced man that lay half dead in the bottom of the canoe
perhaps experienced some reviving influence from this new energy of love
that had transformed the woman who stood near him, for he opened his
eyes again and saw her, this time quite distinctly, standing looking
down upon him. There was tenderness in her eyes, and her sunbrowned face
was all aglow with a flush that was brighter than the flush of physical
exercise. About her bending figure grew what seemed to Bart's
half-dazzled sense the flowers of paradise, for wild sunflowers and
sheafs of purple eupatorium brushed her arms, standing in high phalanx