Cuthbert pulled her back. "You will be blown into the sea," he cried. "Let me go. Boys like me, we just love wild weather. I shan't hurt. What is it brings the downie fit?" he asked. "Tell old Cuth."
"It is father, dear—it is father," she murmured, as his arms went round her coaxingly.
"I know," he answered. "I cried because I could not help it; but Edwin says crying is no good."
"Praying is better," she whispered, buttoning up his coat a little closer. But what was he wearing?
"Oh, I got into somebody's clothes," he said, "and Edwin helped me."
"It is father's short gray coat," she ejaculated, stroking it lovingly down his chest, as if it were all she ever expected to see of her father any more.
"So much the better," he answered, undaunted. "I want to be father to-night."
"Night!" repeated Edwin, catching up the word, "How can you stand there talking when there is a ship going down before our eyes?"
Cuthbert ran up the rocky headland after his brother, scarcely able to keep his footing in the increasing gale. There, by the bright stream of light flung fitfully across the boiling waves, he too could see the little vessel tossing among the breakers. An Egyptian darkness lay around them—a darkness that might be felt, a darkness which the ruddiest glow of their beacon could scarcely penetrate.
"You talk of night," Edwin went on, as the brothers clung together, "but it is my belief it has long since been morning. I tell you what it is, Cuth: the sun itself is veiled in sackcloth and ashes; it can't break through this awful cloud."