a life spent wholly out of doors, were glistening still with the
salt water which dripped down from his hair and hung in sparkling
globules from his beard. Cecil was paler than ever; there was
something almost furtive in that swift insistent look. Perhaps he
recognized something of what was in the other's mind. At any rate
the good-nature left his manner--his tone took to itself a sterner
note.

"I came back," he said grimly. "I should not have come back alone.
She was hard to save, too," he added, after a moment's pause.

"She is mad," Cecil muttered. "A queer lot, all the Caynsards."

"She is as sane as you or I," his brother answered. "She does rash
things, and she chooses to treat her life as though it were a matter
of no consequence. She took a fifty to one chance at the bar, and
she nearly lost. But, by heaven, you should have seen her bring my
little boat down the creek, with the tide swelling, and a squall
right down on the top of us. It was magnificent. Cecil!"

"Well?"

"Why does Kate Caynsard treat her life as though it were of less
value than the mackerel she lowers her line for? Do you know?"

The younger man dropped his eyeglass and shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously.

"Since when," he demanded, "have I shown any inclination to play the
village Lothario? Thick ankles and robust health have never appealed