She said no more, nor did I. Except for the splash of the spray and the flapping of the loose ends of the tarpaulin, it was quiet aboard the Comfort. Quiet, except for an odd sound in the shadow by my knee. I stooped and listened.
“Miss Colton,” I said, quickly. “What is it?”
No answer. Yet I heard the sound again.
“What is it, Miss Colton?” I repeated. “What is the matter? Why are you crying?”
“I—I am NOT crying,” indignantly. And on the very heels of the denial came a stifled sob.
That sob went to my heart. A great lump rose in my own throat. My brain seemed to be turning topsy-turvy. A moment before it had been filled with bitterness and resentment and vengeful thoughts. Now these had vanished and in their place came crowding other and vastly different feelings. She was crying, sobbing there alone in the dark at my feet. And I had treated her like a brute!
“Miss Colton,” I pleaded, in an agony of repentance, “what is it? Is there anything I can do? Are you still cold? Take this other coat, the one I have on. I don't need it, really. I am quite warm.”
“I am not cold.”
“But—”
“Oh, please don't speak to me! PLEASE!”