Jimmy, who was sitting on the skylights, saw the apprehension in Anthea Merril's eyes as she glanced down for a moment into the fragile face of her companion, and he fancied that Valentine did so too; but the girl smiled wistfully.
"Still," she said, "it is a good deal to have seen the glory of this world, and one would almost fancy that other one—where the sea is glassy—could not be much more beautiful."
There was a hint of reproach in Anthea Merril's quiet voice, which reached Jimmy.
"Nellie," she said, "you have morbid fancies now and then. We brought you on this trip to make you cheerful and strong."
The sick girl smiled again, and the pallor of her fragile face intensified the faint shining of her eyes. "I think you know that I shall never get strong again, and, after all, why should I wish to stay here when I may leave my pains and weaknesses behind me? You can't understand that. You have the vigor of the sea in you—and the world before you."
It apparently occurred to Valentine that he was hearing too much, for he stood up, swaying while the Sorata plunged, and called to Austerly through one of the open skylights of the saloon.
"We'll have the breeze down on us twice as hard in a few minutes, sir, and there's an inlet we could lie snug in not far astern," he said. "It's quite likely we might come across a Siwash or two who would pole you up the river at the head of the inlet to within easy reach of the agent's place, to-morrow."
"Very well!" said Austerly; "you can run her away."
It appeared advisable, for the Sorata buried her bows in a smother of frothing brine and dipped her lee-deck deep, as a blast swept down. Valentine glanced at Miss Merril somewhat dubiously.
"Do you think you could jibe her all standing?" he asked.