Under the cheering influence of Ethel's presence Morley's features soon became less haggard, and the keen, hawk-like expression of his dark eyes—an expression the result of suffering, danger, and of being long menaced by death—rapidly softened and passed away.
But with breakfast untasted, or feigning only to partake thereof, Ethel, pale and feverish, sat like one in a dream.
For this sudden restoration of Morley to life and to her, as it would seem from the bosom of the deep—from the greedy waves of that vast ocean which they had been traversing for more than three months—was more difficult of realisation than the horror of his disappearance and of his supposed dreadful death.
But she, and Rose too, seemed so forgetful of every one present, save Morley, that worthy young Dr. Leslie Heriot, F.R.C.S.E., actually envied him—envied the earlier intimacy he could claim with these two charming sisters, and felt almost jealous of the deep interest they evinced for our poor waif of the sea.
"And so you are indeed Miss Ethel Basset?" said Tom Bartelot, surveying the lovely girl with honest admiration and kindliness, when he was introduced to her.
"I am, sir," replied Ethel, smiling at his manner; "and a very old friend of Mr. Ashton's."
"I can scarcely regret the loss of my ship, the poor Princess" said Tom, gallantly, "or my own suffering and misfortune, when I consider that all have been but the means to a happy end."
"Sir?" said Ethel, blushing a little, and looking down. "You mean——"
"That they have been the means of bringing you and my old chum and schoolfellow, Mr. Ashton, together again," continued Tom, blundering still more by his straightforward inferences.
"You are very kind, sir, in saying so," replied Ethel, as her colour came and went.