She felt he was right. What use were her tears and her irritation? He was doing all he could. They were in the hands of an inscrutable Providence. As long as the signal-fire was kept burning there was hope.
CHAPTER XIII.
Slowly the weeks slipped by. The castaways were still in their island prison with relief as far away, apparently, as ever.
Grace had taken possession of her cabin and made herself as comfortable as it was possible under the circumstances. The luxuries to which she had always been accustomed were lamentably lacking. There was no dainty bathroom for her ablutions, no maid to answer her call, no extensive wardrobe to select from, no telephone through which she could chat with friends. But at least she had shelter and a bed to sleep upon, and for these blessings she was sensible enough to be devoutly thankful. Armitage had built close by, for his own use, a similar, but less elaborate, hut, and he took a certain pride in keeping it in order.
One day Grace found some flowers on the table in her cabin. Only one person could have put them there, and when she realized that fact, it came rather as a shock to find her strange companion paying her attentions of this nature.
"Thank you for the flowers," she said, with some embarrassment.
"I thought they'd brighten the place up a bit," he replied awkwardly:
He smiled, and she noticed for the first time that he had fine white teeth. But nothing more was said, and he went unconcernedly about his work.
For the remainder of that morning she avoided him. She left her cabin and fled to Mount Hope, straining her eyes once more in a fruitless effort to see appear on the horizon the ship which would come to her rescue.