Near the camp, upon a strip of shelving beach, two canoes were drawn up. Dense thickets of pines, oaks, and balsam hedged in the clearing.
He was, it seemed, to be left to himself that day; when he had cooked and made way with an enormous breakfast, Alan found nothing better to do than to explore this pocket domain. He never wandered far from camp. He was indisposed to run any risk of not being at home to welcome the woman who had nursed him and then vanished, leaving him for souvenir only that rose (culled from a bush that some whim of chance had planted near the cabin door) and the memory of her lips. …
He feasted famously again at noon; whiled away several hours by fishing with rod and tackle found in the camp, and toward three o'clock lounged back to his aromatic couch for a nap.
The westering sun had thrown a shadow across the cove when he was awakened. Rose Trine was kneeling beside him, clutching his shoulders, calling him by name. He wasted no time discriminating between dream and reality, but gathered both into his arms. And for a moment she rested there unresisting, if sobbing quietly.
"What is it, dearest?" he questioned, kissing her tears away.
"To find you all right. … I was so afraid!"
