"Saved!" echoed Mrs. Desmond, clutching feebly at the rope. "Don't leave me, Helen."
"Come," shouted the men, "there is not a moment to lose."
"Hold fast, dear, hold fast!" said Helen, beginning to attach herself also to the rope. But it was too late. Crying "Ready?" the men pulled the rope. With a faint scream Mrs. Desmond disappeared alone into the swirling water. A minute or two later her dripping, senseless form lay upon the raft, which was itself almost engulfed immediately afterwards as, with an awful booming sound, the wreck settled down lower into the water. A rising wave caught Helen and carried her off her feet. She caught at some floating wreckage, which supported her for a moment, and looked round her for the last time. The raft had disappeared from sight. She was alone.
Day broke. The mist melted away as the sun rose sparkling on the water that, swept by a light wind, danced gaily in the glad morning light. But of the ship that had moved so gallantly over those same waters only a few short hours before, no trace remained, save here and there some floating wreckage. No trace either of the brave little soul whose perplexities were all over now, who would never be unlucky any more, to whom death had come gently and tenderly at last, and to whom it had been given to offer the supremest sacrifice, even its own life, for another.
Colonel and Mrs. Desmond were amongst the survivors on that fatal night, whose terrible events cost the latter a long and painful illness. On her recovery she burst into tears when Helen's name was mentioned in her presence for the first time. Whether she was fully conscious of her stepdaughter's heroic behaviour towards her no one ever exactly knew. Her husband learnt much of what had passed through her ravings during her illness, but he dreaded recurring to so painful a subject. Very sadly, after many months had elapsed, they returned to their home in Bloomsbury Square, and from that day forward no untoward event occurred to mar the outward calm of the lives of this middle-aged couple as they went down into what seemed serene old age; but the colonel's hair whitened rapidly, and Mrs. Desmond realized too late all that she had missed.
Spring was in the land once more when Colonel and Mrs. Desmond, aged and saddened, stood again in sight of Longford Grange. Mrs. Desmond trembled as she walked, and the colonel took her hand gently and led her towards the churchyard. There, at the head of a little mound, bright with spring flowers, a marble cross had been placed. On it was written—
IN MEMORY OF
HAROLD,
Who Died August 10th, 187—.
And below—