“Let us go back,” she said, hurriedly, with a little shudder. “I am tired now.”
Miss Lawson walked with her in silence.
“I am an old woman,” she mused to herself, “this is beyond me. We have waited long and wearily, and yet she gets no better. I shall give in, and leave the rest to Stuart.”
A message sped swiftly from the fishing village to the great city. It was short, yet it brought a thrill of intense joy to Stuart Crosbie’s aching heart. There was no hope breathed in the words, but hope lived within his breast, as it had lived through all his weary waiting. He longed impatiently for the night to be gone—for the morning to come, and when the sun rose over the still sleeping city, he was speeding away from it to the sea.
“Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or fields near home,
Or where the fire-flow’rs blow,
Or where the flow’rs of snow,