CHAPTER XVII.
THOUGHTS.
During the long days, the June days, of her convalescence, Catherine found herself involuntarily reverting, more often than she could understand, to thoughts of the inscrutable and unknown man who had in all probability saved her life.
"Had it not been for him," she reflected, as she sat there gazing out over the river, "I might not be here, this minute.

Caught as I was, on the very brink of the precipice, I should almost certainly have slipped and fallen over, in my dazed condition, when I tried to get up.

If I'd been alone, if he hadn't found me just when he did--!" She shuddered at thought of what must almost inevitably have happened, and covered her face with both hands.

Her cheeks burned; she knew emotion such as not once had Waldron's kiss ever been able to arouse in her.

The memory of how she, half-unconscious, had lain in that stranger's arms, so powerful and tense; had been carried by him, as though she had been a child; had felt his breath upon her face and the quick, vigorous beating of his heart--all this, and more, dwelt in her soul, nor could she banish it.
Gratitude?
Yes, and more.