She hurried to a locker, as if glad of an excuse to occupy herself. She produced her little sewing-basket and then came to him and held out her hand.
“Take it off, please.”
“You needn't trouble,” he expostulated, still gruff.
“I insist. Please let me do a little something to make up for the Polly's naughtiness.”
“It will be all right until I can get ashore—and perhaps I'll never have need to wear the coat again, anyway.”
“Won't you allow me to be doing something that will take my mind off my troubles, sir?” Then she snapped her finger into her palm and there was a spirit of matronly command in her voice, in spite of her youth. “I insist, I say! Take off your coat.”
He obeyed, a little grin crinkling at the corners of his mouth—a flicker of light in his general gloom. After he had placed the coat in her hands he sat down on the transom and watched her busy fingers. She worked deftly. She closed in the rents and then darned the raveled places with bits of the thread pulled from the coat itself.
“You are making it look almost as good as new.”
“A country girl must know how to patch and darn. The folks in the country haven't as many things to throw away as the city folks have.”
“But that—what you are doing—that's real art.”