"Do look!" she repeated. "It's coming in—a little boat. I suppose it is empty."
The blot was now near enough for him to distinguish its outline. As Meta said, no one was visible. It was drifting. Against his wish his gaze fastened on the approaching boat. It hesitated, appeared to swing away, and then resumed the progress inshore.
"I believe it will float into that cut in the beach below," he told her.
His attention was divided between the craft and the image of all the pleasures he would introduce to Meta—Turnbull. It was a lucky circumstance that he had plenty of money, for he realized that she would not marry a poor man. This was not only natural but commendable. Poor men were fools, too weak for success; only the strong ate white bread and had fine women, only the masterful conquered circumstance.
"Come," she said, catching his hand; "it's almost here."
She half pulled him over the glistening wet sand to where the deeper water thrust into the beach. Her interest was now fully communicated to him.
"We must drag it safely up," he articulated, out of breath from her eagerness. The bow swept into the onward current, it moved more swiftly, and then sluggishly settled against the bottom. Painted on its blistering white side was a name, "Veronica," and "Ten persons." There was a slight movement at the rail, and a sharp unreasoning horror gripped August Turnbull.
"Something in it," he muttered. He wanted to turn away, to run from the beach; but a stronger curiosity
