Jem hesitated a moment, and then started at a quick run for home. His steps sounded very dreary, beating along the shore.
Lloyd went to work to collect more wood. He had to grope among the icy mass along shore to find his way. The tide was rising and the frozen spray half blinded him. Besides, he was not warmly clothed.
Now I am not going to tell you a painful story, so I will not dwell on this long night; the longest in Lloyd Wells' life, perhaps, though he lived to be an old man.
No sound came to him from the sea to show that the schooner was there or that his work was of use. But still he did not once give it up.
All night he groped and tugged at the scattered bits of wood, piled them up, keeping himself in motion, not daring to close his eyes, knowing that if he did he would never waken. All night long.
But at last he stumbled and sank, and did not rise again. The cold and weariness were too much for the lad, if his heart was that of a man.
As he fell he heard a grating sound on the beach—voices—shouts. Was it the schooner? Had he saved them?
He woke in his mother's bed. She was leaning over him, crying, laughing at once. There was a man beside her with his arm about her waist, stooping over Lloyd, patting his pale little face; a tall, bronzed man; but the eyes and mouth were those of the little photograph framed in black that hung over his mother's bed.
Lloyd tried to raise his head. "John," he cried, "O, John."