So they felt they had learned the name of the place, but whether it was the official name or one given by the old gentleman for his private use they could not discover.
“There is a town of St. Lory in the south of France,” said Pats. “I knew a man who came from there. Perhaps our host was from that vicinity.”
The days went by and no sail appeared. This, however, was of slight importance. In fact, during that first ecstatic period, nothing was important,–that is, nothing like a ship. It was during this period they forgot to keep tally of time, and they either lost or gained a day, they knew not which–nor cared.
All days were good, whatever the weather. Time never dragged. With a companion of another temperament Elinor could easily have passed moments of depression. For a girl in her position there certainly was abundant material for regret. But the courage and the unwavering 136cheerfulness of Pats were contagious. He and melancholy were never partners. A discovery, however, was made one morning on the little beach that, for a moment at least, filled Elinor with misgivings.
Midway along this beach they found a bucket, rolling about on the sand, driven here and there by the incoming waves.
“That is worth saving,” and Pats, watching his opportunity, followed up a receding breaker and procured the prize. It resembled a fire-bucket; and there were white letters around the centre. Elinor ran up and stood beside him, and, as he held it aloft, turning it slowly about to follow the words, both read aloud:
“Of–the–North–Maid.”
“Maid of the North!” exclaimed Elinor, grasping Pats by the arm. “Oh, I hope nothing has happened to her!”
“Probably not. More likely some sailor lost it overboard.” Then, looking up and down the beach, “There is no wreckage of any kind. If she had blown up or struck a rock there would surely be something more than one water-bucket to come ashore and tell us. I guess she is all right.”