Few of the fisher-folk were about; but in the distance she could see some children running to and fro on the shore, and the wind now and then wafted their voices to her ears. Tired at last, her breath almost spent, she turned inland in a cross direction, determining to rest at one of the cottages before going home. The wind blew her along at times, almost taking her off her feet; and she had to drop upon the wet beach more than once to gather strength. At last she sighted the cottages, and struggled to the first one. The women knew her well; she was a great favorite, and they were never tired of dwelling on her youth, beauty, sad history, and goodness and generosity.
She knocked at the rough door, and it was opened immediately.
“May I come in and rest, Mrs. David?” she asked, leaning back against the doorpost, almost breathless.
“Lor’ bless me, my lady, in course! Come in at once!” exclaimed the buxom fisherwoman. “It is a sight too wild for you to be out. It is rough here, too, my lady. The chair is hard; but——”
“It is most acceptable,” sighed Margery, sinking, with a sigh of fatigue, into the great wooden chair. “I have been walking along the shore. How rough the sea is to-day! And how have you been, Mrs. David? You look sad—are you in trouble? Oh”—catching sight of a small form covered with blankets lying in a warm corner by the fire—“your child is ill?”
Mrs. David put her apron to her eyes.
“He is better now, my lady,” she replied, with a sob in her voice; “but he was all but gone this morning. Oh, dear me, it fair broke my heart to see him—him, my only one, my lady!”
“What happened?” asked Margery, quickly, her heart full of sympathy. She knew the child well—a beautiful, rosy-cheeked boy, the very light and joy of his parents’ life. “Is he very ill?”
“He went out the morning, your ladyship. My mind misgive me as I saw him go; but he loves the sea. My man is away over to the town to-day; and Jim he begged to go out and watch the waves; and he went too near, my lady, and got drawed in by the tide, and would have been washed away if a strange gentleman—Heaven bless him!—hadn’t tore off his coat and plunged in. I thought my Jim was dead when I see him carried in white and all dripping; but the gentleman he rubbed him, and rolled him in blankets. And now he’s sleeping like a lamb, you see, my lady. But; oh, I nearly died!”
“It was dreadful!” said Margery, gently, rising and putting her soft, white hand on the rough, tanned arm of the mother. “But don’t cry, Mrs. David. Jim is all right now, poor little fellow. You are nervous and upset. Can you send up to my house this evening? I will have some nice things put together for him that will soon make him well.”