"I went to the cliff this morning," she said, "thinking I might see a sail, but I was disappointed."
"Why did you think to see a sail, Blanche?" he asked.
"I dreamed last night that a ship came for you and took you home. Oh, how glad I was, when I saw you happy again with your dear wife and the baby on your knee, its little warm hands on your face!"
After a long silence, he asked:
"Blanche, how long have we been here?"
"Ten years," she answered.
Blanche not only had kept a complete journal since the day of their shipwreck, but had written a faithful description of the island, giving its resources and describing the coast. To John it seemed but yesterday since he kissed the tender cheek of his babe, bade his wife a farewell and sailed away.
Ten years had made their impress on him. His hair was growing gray, and his beard was quite frosty. It was not age that whitened his hair so much as it was his ten years of suffering. Ten years had developed Blanche from a beautiful girl to a glorious woman of twenty-eight, more beautiful at twenty-eight than eighteen.
"Blanche, would ten years change a baby?" John asked.
"Yes."