“Perhaps he has gone for a boat,” Cicely suggested.
“Yes, perhaps he has,” Eve assented, eagerly. And for a moment the two women gazed southward with the same hopefulness.
Then Eve came back to reality. “What are we thinking of? Do you want to have Jack killed?”
Cicely threw up her arms. “Oh, if it weren’t for Jack!” Her despair at that moment gave her majesty.
“Give him to me; let me take him away,” urged Eve again.
“I will never give him to any one; I will never leave him, never.”
“Then you must both go with me for the present; we will go farther north than Savannah; we will go to New York.”
“There is only one place I will go to—one person, and that is Paul; Ferdie loves Paul;—I will go nowhere else.”
“Very well; we will go to Paul.”
The struggle was over; Cicely’s voice had grown lifeless. Little Jack, tired out, laid himself despairingly down on the sand; she sat down beside him, rearranged the shawl under him and over him, and then, as he fell asleep, she clasped her hands round her knees, and waited inertly, her eyes fixed on the opposite beach.