There was a brief silence. The children sat hand in hand, watching the shadows deepening under the cliffs, and the mist creeping over the sea. Dick thought of his parents in India, and wondered if he would ever see them again; then he prayed fervently to God for help, and tried to encourage his cousin not to give up hope.
"If we drift far out to sea perhaps a trawler will pick us up," he suggested, "or perhaps Jim Cole will miss his boat, and—"
"Oh, Dick, it's no good talking like that! I'm sure we shall be drowned!"
"Oh, no! In the morning—"
"We shall be dead by then," she interrupted, "dead of cold!" —and she shivered, and wept without restraint. "I wish I was a better girl," she said presently, wiping away her tears, "but I've always been naughty. I don't speak the truth like you do, Dick. I tell fibs—not great big lies, but little silly fibs; and I don't obey mother, though I know I ought; and I'm altogether nasty, I think!"
"I'm sure you're not," Dick replied earnestly. "You're not a bit nasty, and you tell the truth much oftener than you used—you told about the donkey this morning, you know."
"I am so glad I did! Do you think God will forgive me for all the wrong things I've done, if I tell Him how sorry I am?"
"Of course He will! I'd tell Him at once if I were you!"
There was another short silence. It was now almost dark, but it was a wonderfully peaceful evening—the calm after a storm. The children were utterly unconscious of the direction in which the boat was drifting. Ruth had ceased crying, though she could not prevent an occasional sob breaking from her lips. Dick was exceedingly sorry for her, and he was sorry for himself too; he did not talk because he was afraid his voice might betray the emotion he bravely restrained.
At length, when they had both made up their minds that it was useless hoping to be rescued from their harrowing position that night, they heard men's voices shouting, and presently a light glimmered at no great distance away.