Dorothy gasped. "I might—I might try," she said in a whisper.
He stooped down, picked her up, and kissed her. Then, with a profound sigh of relief and content, he sat down beside her, drew her to him, and leaned back against the tree; she was crying softly.
They were far away from the world, and for them time stood still. They did not see the approaching lights of the Petrel, or hear the throb of her screw; only the roaring hail of Alphonse awoke them from their dream.
When they came on board, the observant Tinker saw the flush which came and went in Dorothy's cheeks, and the new light in his father's eyes; he saw her genuine surprise at finding herself so hungry. He observed that his father was quite careless about the cause of the Petrel's long absence, and his angel face was wreathed with the contented smile of the truly meritorious.
After supper his father went on deck to watch the steering of the yacht; Elsie fell asleep; and Dorothy sat, lost in a dream.
"Is it all right?" said Tinker softly.
"I don't know what you mean. You're a horrid scheming little boy," said Dorothy with shameless ingratitude.
"Yes; but is it all right?" said Tinker.
"I shan't let you scheme like that when—when I'm your mother," said Dorothy with virtuous severity, and she blushed.
"So it is all right," said Tinker, and he chuckled.