"A moment, sir," exclaimed our friend of the fireside, rising and
stepping toward me as I stood alongside the boat. "You are forgetting
your coat."
She would have taken it from her shoulders, but I forbade it. She
hesitated, and finally said, "I thank you so much"; holding out her
hand.
I took it. It was a small hand, with round fingers, firm of clasp. I
hate a hard-handed woman, or one with mushy fingers, but this, as it
seemed to me, was a hand excellently good to clasp--warm now, and no
longer trembling in the terrors of the night.
"I do not know your name, sir," she said, "but I should like my father
to thank you some day."
"All ready!" cried the mate.
"My name is Cowles," I began, "and sometime, perhaps--"
"All aboard!" cried the mate; and so the oars gave way.
So I did not get the name of the girl I had seen there in the firelight.
What did remain--and that not wholly to my pleasure, so distinct it
seemed--was the picture of her high-bred profile, shown in chiaroscuro
at the fireside, the line of her chin and neck, the tumbled masses of
her hair. These were things I did not care to remember; and I hated
myself as a soft-hearted fool, seeing that I did so.
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