Cruel as was her strait, heavy as was her burden, not one feather's
weight of it should he carry, if by any means in her poor power she
could hold it from his back. She would not even tell him of what had
happened--at any rate, not now. It would distress him; he might take
some desperate step; it was almost certain that he would do so. Her
answer must be very short.
She was quite close to Coed now, and the water lay calm as a pond. So
calm was it that she drew the sheet of paper and the envelope from her
pocket, and leaning forward, rested them on the arched covering of the
canoe, and pencilled those words which we have already read.
"No, dear Geoffrey. Things must take their course.--B."
Thus she wrote. Then she paddled to the shore. A fisherman standing on
the beach caught her canoe and pulled it up. Leaving it in his charge,
she went into the quaint little town, directed and posted her letter,
and bought some wool. It was an excuse for having been there should any
one ask questions. After that she returned to her canoe. The fisherman
was standing by it. She offered him sixpence for his trouble, but he
would not take it.
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