"It is life!" said Harrington, lifting his radiant face to the boatman.
"Are you sartin it ain't the wind a stirring her gown?" asked Ben, trembling between anxiety and delight.
"No, no—her chest heaves,—she struggles. It is life, precious, holy life; God has given her back to us, Ben!"
"I don't know—I ain't quite sartin yet, if she'd only open her eyes, or lift her hand!" exclaimed the poor fellow.
Here a faint groan broke from the object of his solicitude, and she began to struggle upon the ground.
"Go," said Harrington, "search out the light we saw—she will need rest and shelter more than anything now."
"I will, in course I will—only let me be sartin she's coming to."
The good fellow knelt down by Mabel as he spoke, and lifting her hand in his, laid it to his rough cheek.
"It's alive—it moves like a drenched bird put back in its nest—I'll go now, Mister James, but d'ye see I felt like thanking the great Admiral up aloft there, and didn't want no mistake about it."
"Yes, we may well thank God; she lives," said Harrington, looking down upon Mabel with tears in his eyes.