And when to this was added
the faint perfume of her nearer presence--the scent she always used--the
delicate revelations of her withdrawn gauntlet, the bracelet clasping
her white wrist, and at last the thrilling contact of her soft hand on
his arm,--she put down the manuscript and blushed like a very girl. Then
she started.
A shout!--HIS voice surely!--and the sound of oars in their rowlocks.
An instant revulsion of feeling overtook her. With a quick movement she
instantly hid the manuscript beneath her cloak and stood up erect and
indignant. Not twenty yards away, apparently advancing from the opposite
shore of the bay, was a boat. It contained only John Milton, resting on
his oars and scanning the group of rocks anxiously. His face, which was
quite strained with anxiety, suddenly flushed when he saw her, and then
recognizing the unmistakable significance of her look and attitude,
paled once more. He bent over his oars again; a few strokes brought him
close to the rock.
"I beg your pardon," he said hesitatingly, as he turned towards her and
laid aside his oars, "but--I thought--you were--in danger."
She glanced quickly round her. She had forgotten the tide! The ledge
between her and the shore was already a foot under brown sea-water. Yet
if she had not thought that it would look ridiculous, she would have
leaped down even then and waded ashore.
"It's nothing," she said coldly, with the air of one to whom the
situation was an everyday occurrence; "it's only a few steps and a
slight wetting--and my brother would have been here in a moment more.
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