"And I was dreadfully ashamed to make you the victim of my blunder,"
answered Miss Ellison penitently; and a little silence ensued. Then as
if she had suddenly been able to alienate the case, and see it apart
from herself in its unmanageable absurdity, she broke into a confiding
laugh, very like her cousin's, and said, "Why, it's one of the most
hopeless things I ever heard of. I don't see what in the world can be
done about it."

"It _is_ rather a difficult matter, and I'm not prepared to say myself.
Before I make up my mind I should like it to happen again."

Mr. Arbuton had no sooner made this speech, which he thought neat, than
he was vexed with himself for having made it, since nothing was further
from his purpose than a flirtation. But the dark, vicinity, the young
girl's prettiness, the apparent freshness and reliance on his sympathy
from which her frankness came, were too much: he tried to congeal again,
and ended in some feebleness about the scenery, which was indeed very
lonely and wild, after the boat started up the Saguenay, leaving the few
lights of Tadoussac to blink and fail behind her. He had an absurd sense
of being alone in the world there with the young lady; and he suffered
himself to enjoy the situation, which was as perfectly safe as anything
could be. He and Miss Ellison had both come on from Niagara, it seemed,
and they talked of that place, she consciously withholding the fact that
she had noticed Mr. Arbuton there; they had both come down the Rapids of
the St. Lawrence, and they had both stopped a day in Montreal. These
common experiences gave them a surprising interest for each other, which
was enhanced by the discovery that their experiences differed
thereafter, and that whereas she had passed three days at Quebec, he, as
we know, had come on directly from Montreal.