She laughed at him over the big oar between them.

The wind and sun played riot in her hair.

Her parted lips were rose-red, her cheeks flushed, her eyes like sun-warmed rock violets.

More than once, in the thrill of that afternoon flight, as he looked at the marvelous beauty of her, he asked himself if it could be anything but a dream.

And more than once he laughed joyously, and paused in his swinging of the sweep, and proved that it was real and true.