Page:Barbour--Joan of the ilsand.djvu/147

Rh hungrily, and wondering all the time whether heaven itself could contain such joy as would be his if, having fought for, and won a fortune, he could share it with her as his wife. His love for her, or rather the stern repression of it, was becoming almost more than he could bear; and sometimes he wondered gloomily whether it would not be best if he went away. He had the strength of will even to do that, though it would be a wrench greater than he liked to think about; he had wrestled with that problem in the silent watches of the night, however, and decided that it would be foolish, at any rate for the present, to run away from such happiness as the gods had strewn in his path.

A hat of white canvas shaded her head, but her hair hung over her shoulders in the two thick ropes in which she generally wore it, and the sun burnished its coppery hue. Her waist, turned in at the throat, allowed a glimpse of a neck of marble whiteness below the warm tan. Her lips were slightly parted, and her slender fingers were toying idly with the sand.

There was silence, save for the murmur of breakers, while the picture of Joan held the man spellbound. The clock of eternity ticked off something like sixty seconds, but for these two time stood still.

Keith tried to speak, cleared his throat, moistened his lips and tried again.