Helen was forward, leaning on the rail. Her thick steamer-dress blew like muslin in the heavy wind. Her eyes met Bayard’s first—yes, first. Her father came in second, but his were too dim to know it.
“Mother is in the cabin, dear Papa!” cried Helen; “we have to keep her warm and still, you know.”
His daughter’s precious kiss invited him, but the old man put Helen gently aside, and dashed after his old wife.
For that moment Helen and Bayard stood together. Before all the world he would have taken her in his arms, but she retreated a little step.
“Did you get my message?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“Did you answer it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”