That morning, before Davy had come from the lamp, there was a knocking on the outer door, and a pushing as well. Janet, coming down the stairs with the empty tray, saw the door open, and in the light of the gray, still morn, for the storm was past, she recognized Mark in a yellow oiler with a sou'wester nearly hiding his wet and ashen face.
"You found her?" The words broke from Janet like a sob.
"Not yet." Mark's voice was slow and weak. "We want Davy t' come an' help, soon as he can. An' can you let me have a cup o' coffee, Janet? I'm most done up. The—the Comrade is bottom up round by the P'int an' I—I guess she was bein' beaten toward home; but—but—"
Janet dropped the tray and ran to Mark; she drew him into the room and pushed him toward a chair.
"Sit down!" she said brokenly. "Sit down, you look as if you would drop. See, I have the coffee all ready; it will take but a minute." She hurried the preparation, and after she saw Mark gulp the strong, hot drink, she asked quietly, but with awe in her voice, "Can you tell me now, Mark?"
"There ain't much t' tell. When a boat's bottom up in such a gale as was a-blowin' last night, an' only a poor, little frightened gal was at the tiller, why—why there ain't, what you might say, anythin' t' tell."
Mark stared dully before him. He was tired and soul-weary. "She's got away fast enough this time, Janet," he went on drearily; "'t ain't likely any one will be troubled settlin' things fur her now."
"Don't! don't! Mark." Janet was crouching by his chair, her tear-filled eyes looking wildly at his dull, vacant face. "We, you and I, were trying, you know!"
"Yes; but it was uphill work, an' would have been wuss, like as not. 'T ain't easy settin' straight a botch like that. I guess this is the best way. Don't take on, Janet! Seems like she allus got the rough part, but you couldn't help that none. I guess you'd been the quickest one t' help her if she'd cried out t' you; but even you couldn't have helped much."
Janet heard again in fancy the weird call of the night.