Agatha replied heartily to this, and her answer appeared to satisfy James for the moment.  “Though,” she added, “here in the dark, who can tell whether I have rosy cheeks or not?”

“True!” sighed James, but his sigh was not an unhappy one.  Presently he began once more:  “I want to know, too, if you weren’t surprised that I knew your name?”

“Well, yes, a little, when I had time to think about it.  How did you know it?”

James laughed.  “I meant to keep it a secret, always; but I guess I’ll tell, after all—­just you.  I got it from the program, that Sunday, you know.”

“Ah, yes, I understand.”  She didn’t quite understand, at first; for there had been other Sundays and other songs.  But she could not weary him now with questions.

As they lay there the slow, monotonous susurrus of the sea made a deep accompaniment to their words.  It was near, and yet immeasurably far, filling the universe with its soft but insistent sound and echoes of sound.  At the back of her mind, Agatha heard it always, low, threatening, and strong; but on the surface of her thoughts, she was trying to decide what she ought to do.  She was thinking whether she might question her companion a little concerning himself, when he answered her, in part, of his own accord.

“You couldn’t know who I am, of course:  James Hambleton, of Lynn.  Jim, Jimmy, Jimsy, Bud—­I’m called most anything.  But I wanted to tell you—­in fact, that’s what I waked up expressly for—­I wanted to tell you—­”

He paused so long, that Agatha leaned over, trying to see his face.  The violence of the chill had passed.  His eyes were wide open, his face alarmingly pale.  She felt a sudden qualm of pain, lest illness and exhaustion had wrought havoc in his frame deeper than she knew.  But as she bent over him, his features lighted up with his rare smile—­an expression full of happiness and peace.  He lifted a hand, feebly, and she took it in both her own.  She felt that thus, hand in hand, they were nearer; that thus she could better be of help to him.

“I wanted to tell you,” he began again, “that whatever happens, I’m glad I did it.”

“Did what, dear friend?” questioned Agatha, thinking in her heart that the fever had set his wits to wandering.

“Glad I followed the Face and the Voice,” he answered feebly.  Agatha watched him closely, torn with anxiety.  She couldn’t bear to see him suffer—­this man who had so suddenly become a friend, who had been so brave and unselfish for her sake, who had been so cheerful throughout their night of trouble.

“I told old Aleck,” James went on, “that I’d have to jump the fence; but that was ages ago.  I’ve been harnessed down so long, that I thought I’d gone to sleep, sure enough.”  Agatha thought certainly that now he was delirious, but she had no heart to stop his gentle earnestness.  He went on:  “But you woke me up.  And I wouldn’t have missed this last run, not for anything.  ’Twas a great night, that night on the water, with you; and whatever happens, I shall always think that worth living for; yes, well worth living for.”