“Oh, father, help!” she cried, in a hoarse, piteous voice, as she threw herself upon her knees by the fire to try and restore life to the little clay-clad form she held.
“Wet—drenched!” he cried. “In the sea?”
“No, father,” she moaned. “Quick—the doctor. Mr Trethick. He threw me down the old pit-shaft.”
“Trethick did?” roared the old man.
“No, John Tregenna; and he has killed his child.”
“As I will him,” roared the old wrecker, raising his fists to heaven. “So help me God?”