“Dorothy safe! Hope to get through to-night.—Stanley.”
Mr. Douglas read and re-read, and his voice rang out as it had not for years. Robert knew, for he had served in his father’s house.
Out in the hall the household waited—tearful, hushed. The doctor stood on a chair and read the telegram to them, while the clanging of the bells told far and wide the glad tidings. What did not willing hands and happy hearts do with those bells? How they talked, laughed, danced, exulted!
Timothy, hastening to the station, wondered if no one had gone to bed that night. The telegraph operator told him that Mr. Stanley had sent out the last telegram that had gone through the night of the storm.
The coast for miles had been watched. He had had wireless, searchlights, vessels, lighthouses and the life-saving stations all at work. “He’s a great man! Nothing he has not thought of. Told me to keep still—no use adding to the heartache. I don’t know just what he did say or do, but he made me know it was all right. He’s made every one want to work their heads off. He was off last night on the first engine that got through to the city. “Couldn’t wait for wires,” he said to me; “you’ll know what to do when you get a message”—and I did.
“Listen—there she is!”
The shrieking of an engine—long—loud. It seemed as though no one breathed until the engine rounded the curve, and then cheer after cheer rent the air. No one knew what they did after that, until the doctor’s voice rose above the din:
“A clear path, my friends,” and like magic it was made.
The next moment Dorothy was in her father’s arms and all the sorry lines were kissed away. Perched upon his shoulder, she greeted her friends in her own sunny way.
“I suppose,” she said to Mr. Wright, “I did not get here in time for the Christmas Carols?”