“It was so stupid in him never to see that we had got loose, and were drifting off,” said Vera, who had never thought of inquiring after him.
“My father and Griggs think he behaved quite like a hero,” was the answer. “He must have managed very well to keep you afloat, and saved you all this time.”
“I suppose so,” said Vera. “We always did know him, or I should not have let him get me into that boat, when he minded nothing but his verses.”
“Those verses, they came all limp and wet out of his pocket, and Francie made him let her dry them and copy them out; and she is so delighted with them. It really is well it is too late to call the baby Cyriac.”
“The baby?”
“Oh, yes. We had to leave him behind, though Francie was ready to break her heart over it; but they said that nothing would do for Ivinghoe—after this second influenza—but a sea voyage, so she had to make up her mind to leave him to my mother.”
Vera was in a state of bewilderment, caring a great deal more for herself and her own sensations than for any of her surroundings; and her next question was, “When do you think we shall be out of this?”
“We shall put into harbour somewhere as soon as the wind lulls. We cannot venture yet, though we do steam; and then we can telegraph. I am longing to relieve Miss Prescott. We can take you home all the way. We were on our way into Rock Quay to take up Mysie Merrifield if she can go. It really was a wonderful and most merciful thing that we made you out just as it was getting light before running you down. My father saw you first, and old Griggs would hardly believe it, but then we heard Mr. Delrio’s hail! But it was a terrible business getting you up the ship’s side.”
“I did not know anything about it. It was so dreadful in the lightning. And my new hat was blown away. And what is become of all my clothes?”
“Mrs. Griggs has them, and is drying them. We will lend you a hat to land in.”