She nodded, and, pulling his hat lower over his eyes, Henderson ran around the shore.  In less than an hour he was back.  He helped her a little farther to where the Devil’s Kitchen lay cut into the rocks; it furnished places to rest, and cool water.  Before long his man came with the boat.  From it they spread blankets on the sand for her, and made chafing-dish tea.  She tried to refuse it, but the fragrance overcame her for she drank ravenously.  Then Henderson cooked several dishes and spread an appetizing lunch.  She was young, strong, and almost famished for food.  She was forced to eat.  That made her feel much better.  Then Henderson helped her into the boat and ran it through shady coves of the shore, where there were refreshing breezes.  When she fell asleep the girl did not know, but the man did.  Sadly in need of rest himself, he ran that boat for five hours through quiet bays, away from noisy parties, and where the shade was cool and deep.  When she awoke he took her home, and as they went she knew that she had been mistaken.  She would not die.  Her heart was not even broken.  She had suffered horribly; she would suffer more; but eventually the pain must wear out.  Into her head crept a few lines of an old opera: 

     “Hearts do not break, they sting and ache,
     For old love’s sake, but do not die,
     As witnesseth the living I.”

That evening they were sailing down the Straits before a stiff breeze and Henderson was busy with the tiller when she said to him:  “Hart, I want you to do something more for me.”

“You have only to tell me,” he said.

“Have I only to tell you, Hart?” she asked softly.

“Haven’t you learned that yet, Edith?”

“I want you to go away.”

“Very well,” he said quietly, but his face whitened visibly.

“You say that as if you had been expecting it.”

“I have.  I knew from the beginning that when this was over you would dislike me for having seen you suffer.  I have grown my Gethsemane in a full realization of what was coming, but I could not leave you, Edith, so long as it seemed to me that I was serving you.  Does it make any difference to you where I go?”

“I want you where you will be loved, and good care taken of you.”

“Thank you!” said Henderson, smiling grimly.  “Have you any idea where such a spot might be found?”

“It should be with your sister at Los Angeles.  She always has seemed very fond of you.”

“That is quite true,” said Henderson, his eyes brightening a little.  “I will go to her.  When shall I start?”

“At once.”

Henderson began to tack for the landing, but his hands shook until he scarcely could manage the boat.  Edith Carr sat watching him indifferently, but her heart was throbbing painfully.  “Why is there so much suffering in the world?” she kept whispering to herself.  Inside her door Henderson took her by the shoulders almost roughly.