The leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy of movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in the sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat’s low side, tossing tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white here and there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray.  Gideon went softly about the business of shortening his small sail, and came quietly back to his steering-seat again.  Soon he would have to be making for what lea the western shore offered; but he was holding to the middle of the river as long as he could, because with every mile the shores were growing more familiar, calling to him to make what speed he could.  Vashti’s sobbing had grown small and ceased; he wondered if she had fallen asleep.

Presently, however, he saw her face raised—­a face still shining with tears.  She saw that he was watching her, and crouched low again.  A dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up frightened, glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes came back to him, and this time she got up, still small and crouching, and made her way slowly and painfully down the length of the boat, until at last Gideon moved aside for her, and she sank in the bottom beside him, hiding her eyes in her gingham sleeve.

Gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his.

“Honey,” said Gideon—­“Honey, yo’ ain’ mad, is yo’?”

She shook her head, not looking at him.

“Yo’ ain’ grievin’ foh yo’ ma?”

Again she shook her head.

“Because,” said Gideon, smiling down at her, “I ain’ got no beeg club like she has.”

A soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time Vashti looked up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of contentment.

Gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and all the world.  He rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a black hand, pointing.