A line from the Rhyme of the Three Sealers came into MacRae's mind as befitting. But he was thinking of his father and not so much of himself as he quoted:
"'Sorrow is me, in a lonely sea,
And a sinful fight I fall.'"
"I'm afraid I don't quite grasp that," Betty said. "Although I know Kipling too, and could supply the rest of those verses. I'm afraid I don't understand."
"It isn't likely that you ever will," MacRae answered slowly. "It is not necessary that you should."
Their voices ceased. In the stillness the whistle of the wind and the deep drone of the seas shattering themselves on the granite lifted a dreary monotone. And presently a quick step sounded on the porch. Doctor Wallis came hurriedly in.
"Upon my soul," he said apologetically. "I ought to be shot, Miss Grower. I got everybody calmed down over at the cottage and chased them all to bed. Then I sat down in a soft chair before that cheerful fire in your living room. And I didn't wake up for hours. You must be worn out."
"That's quite all right," Betty assured him. "Don't be conscience-stricken. Did mamma have hysterics?"
"Well, not quite," he drawled. "At any rate, all's quiet along the Potomac now. How's the patient getting on?"
"I'm O.K.," MacRae spoke for himself, "and much obliged to you both for tinkering me up. Miss Gower ought to go home."