Sometimes the young oarsman kept in the middle of the great stream, and sometimes it seemed pleasanter to be near the shore.  The midsummer flowers were coming into blossom, and the grass and trees had long since lost the brilliance of their greenness, and wore a look of maturity and completion, as if they had already finished their growth.  There was a beautiful softness and harmony of color, a repose that one never sees in a spring landscape.  The tide was in, the sun was almost down, and a great, cloudless, infinite sky arched itself from horizon to horizon.  It had sent all its brilliance to shine backward from the sun,—­the glowing sphere from which a single dazzling ray came across the fields and the water to the boat.  In a moment more it was gone, and a shadow quickly fell like that of a tropical twilight; but the west grew golden, and one light cloud, like a floating red feather, faded away upward into the sky.  A later bright glow touched some high hills in the east, then they grew purple and gray, and so the evening came that way slowly, and the ripple of the water plashed and sobbed against the boat’s side; and presently in the midst of the river’s inland bay, after a few last eager strokes, the young man drew in his oars, letting them drop with a noise which startled Nan, who had happened to be looking over her shoulder at the shore.

She knew well enough that he meant to put a grave question to her now, and her heart beat faster and she twisted the tiller cords around her hands unconsciously.

“I think I could break any bonds you might use to keep yourself away from me,” he said hurriedly, as he watched her.  “I am not fit for you, only that I love you.  Somebody told me you meant to go away, and I could not wait any longer before I asked you if you would give yourself to me.”

“No, no!” cried Nan, “dear friend, I must not do it; it would all be a mistake.  You must not think of it any more.  I am so sorry, I ought to have understood what was coming to us, and have gone away long ago.”

“It would have made no difference,” said the young man, almost angrily.  He could not bear delay enough even for speech at that moment; he watched her face desperately for a look of assurance; he leaned toward her and wondered why he had not risked everything, and spoken the evening before when they stood watching the ship’s mast, and Nan’s hands were close enough to be touched.  But the miserable knowledge crept over him that she was a great deal farther away from him than half that small boat’s length, and as she looked up at him again, and shook her head gently, a great rage of love and shame at his repulse urged him to plead again.  “You are spoiling my life,” he cried.  “You do not care for that, but without you I shall not care for anything.”

“I would rather spoil your life in this way than in a far worse fashion,” said Nan sadly.  “I will always be your friend, but if I married you I might seem by and by to be your enemy.  Yes, you will love somebody else some day, and be a great deal happier than I could have made you, and I shall be so glad.  It does not belong to me.”