Miss Perkins had been present at the funeral of the nameless strangers; and when other people had wept, she had remained stolidly composed. Now her eyes were red, and her pocket-handkerchief was rolled in one hand, ready for emergencies.
"You know best, of course, Miss Perkins. I'm most grateful for your kind help,—and every mother in the land, with a sailor-son at sea, would be the same if she were here now. But I don't ask anybody to give more than can rightly be spared. That would be unreasonable."
"Shouldn't think there wasn't overmuch danger of that, sir!" Miss Perkins sniffled afresh.
"If others respond as quickly as you have done, I don't think we shall wait much longer for the lifeboat," hopefully remarked the Vicar.
Hardly had Miss Perkins vanished, before Mildred Pattison appeared on the scene.
"I've brought another pound," she said simply. "And I'm afraid that's the most I can manage."
"I think you have done your share already, Miss Pattison—I really do," protested the Vicar. "I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke to-day."
"No, sir. But you made me think of myself. If anybody ought to do more, I'm that one. Saved as I was from out of the waves."
Mildred had brought her invariable companion, Hero, who was always admitted into the Vicarage. He had grown to be an immense favourite in the place; and with nobody was he more of a favourite than with the Vicar. Mr. Gilbert's hand rested on the dog's great solid head, as he talked with the dog's mistress.
"But you lost your all on the rocks when you were saved from the wreck. If any one had a reason not to give, some would say that you were that one," the Vicar added impulsively.