of love he was living up to his custom; and the encounter with Detricand
here added the last touch to his resolution, nerved him to follow his
strong impulse to set all upon one hazard. A month ago he had told Guida
that he loved her; to-day there should be a still more daring venture.
A thing not captured by a forlorn hope seemed not worth having. The girl
had seized his emotions from the first moment, and had held them. To him
she was the most original creature he had ever met, the most natural, the
most humorous of temper, the most sincere. She had no duplicity, no
guile, no arts.

He said to himself that he knew his own mind always. He believed in
inspirations, and he would back his knowledge, his inspiration, by an
irretrievable move. Yesterday had come an important message from his
commander. That had decided him. To-day Guida should hear a message
beyond all others in importance.

"Won't you come into the garden?" he said presently.

"A moment--a moment," she answered him lightly, for the frown had passed
from his face, and he was his old buoyant self again. "I'm to make an
end to this bashin of berries first," she added. So saying, she waved
him away with a little air of tyranny; and he perched himself boyishly on
the big chair in the corner, and with idle impatience began playing with
the flax on the spinning-wheel near by. Then he took to humming a ditty
the Jersey housewife used to sing as she spun, while Guida disposed of
the sweet-smelling fruit. Suddenly she stopped and stamped her foot.

"No, no, that's not right, stupid sailor-man," she said, and she sang a
verse at him over the last details of her work: