What a relief these cablegrams were to Parson Grahame, Mrs. Stuart, and Teenie’s father I need hardly say. Teenie’s father—Norton by name—was a simple, but sturdy fisherman. He and his wife had knelt down before retiring, and prayed earnestly for the safety of the Grebe.
“They are in Thy hands, O Father in heaven. Thou who canst hold the ocean in the hollow of Thy hand, will protect and save the Grebe, and watch over the life of our little Teenie. Have we not always trusted Thee, our Heavenly Father, and Thou hast never deserted us? Nor wilt Thou now, for our Saviour’s sake. Amen! and Amen!”
Then they arose from their knees, happy and trusting, even cheerful.
“Shall we sing a hymn, Peter?”
“Ay! that we will. You begin it, lass. You sings like an angel. I’ve but a poor voice, hoarse with roarin’ high above the stormy wind.”
“Ay, Peter, ay.”
The grey-haired old body chose that loveliest hymn that e’er was penned, and as she came to the most beautiful of all the verses in it, for just a moment her voice broke and trembled, and the tears came dropping from her eyes.
“O spread thy covering wings around,
Till all our wanderings cease,
And at our Father’s loved abode
Our souls arrive in peace.”
. . . . . .
But Parson Grahame had gone to Mrs. Stuart’s house to comfort her.
All comfort seemed useless. She hardly ever seated herself, but paced the room, up and down, up and down, all the livelong night, and till morn dawned bleak and grey over the bleak and stormy ocean.