Anthony sat by Barbara. His chair was rickety, one of the legs being
much in need of repair; the driftwood fire that burned brightly about
two feet away grilled his spine, for no screen was available, and he
nearly choked himself with a piece of very hot and hard potato. Yet to
tell the truth never before did he share in such a delightful meal. For
soon, when the clamour of "the girls" swelled loud and long, and the
attention of Mr. and Mrs. Walrond was entirely occupied with the burnt
beef and the large duck that absolutely refused to part with its limbs,
he found himself almost as much alone with Barbara as though they had
been together on the wide seashore.

"You are really getting quite well?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so." Then, after a pause and with a glance from the violet
eyes, "Are you glad?"

"You know I am glad. You know that if you had--died, I should have died
too."

"Nonsense," said the curved lips, but they trembled and the violet eyes
were a-swim with tears. Then a little catch of the throat, and, almost
in a whisper, "Anthony, father told me about you and the window-blind
and--oh! I don't know how to thank you. But I want to say something,
if you won't laugh. Just at that time I seemed to come up out of some
blackness and began to dream of you. I dreamed that I was sinking back
into the blackness, but you caught me by the hand and lifted me quite
out of it. Then we floated away together for ever and for ever and for
ever, for though sometimes I lost you we always met again. Then I woke
up and knew that I wasn't going to die, that's all."