“Oh dear me!” she said, “I suppose all these happy days will never return.”
“They may, little pet.”
“Well,” said Teenie, “Sister Leona prays every night, and I’m just going to do the same. She says God is sure to hear us some day. Do you think, Barclay, that God ever comes to this ugly brown sea?”
“Oh yes; all the beautiful birds are His, and we are all His, and He loves us.”
“Ah!” she cried, “of course the birds are His, but not the ugly sharks. They belong to the bad man. Oh, I know nicely they do.”
“And now, Teenie, are you not going to tune your mandoline and sing a little to us?”
“Yes, do, missie,” said one of the men, reloading his pipe.
Simple little songs they were, sweet and clear; many were lullabies, that almost sent the men to sleep.
But bedtime came at last. A sentry was set, and the men lay down.
Barclay tucked Teenie up on the after-seat of the boat, bade her good-night, kissed her by order, then curled up himself at the bottom of the boat.