“So did I for a moment. It was all my fault, as usual. I let go the wheel.”
“Did you? Why?”
“I don't know why.” This was untrue; I did. “But you are wet through,” I added, remorsefully. “And I haven't another dry wrap aboard.”
“Never mind. You are as wet as I am.”
“Yes, but I don't mind. I am used to it. But you—”
“I am all right. I was a little faint, at first, I think, but I am better now.” She raised her head and sat up. “Where are we?” she asked.
“We are within a few miles of the Wellmouth shore. That light ahead is the Mackerel Island light. We shall be there in a little while. The danger is almost over.”
She shivered.
“You are cold!” I cried. “Of course you are! If I only had another coat or something. It is all my fault.”
“Don't say that,” reproachfully. “Where should I have been if it had not been for you? I was paddling directly out toward those dreadful shoals. Then you came, just as you have done before, and saved me. And,” in a wondering whisper, “I knew it was you!”