“Two names for it?” asked Pat, looking at the Princess.
She nodded. “I know another one.”
“Aren’t you going to tell it?”
“Bimeby,” she said again, just as she had said it before.
And that was drawing enough, and no time for a story, but much better for a scamper on the beach, along the edge of the waves that had stopped going out and were running all the time nearer.
V
MAJOR
Exactly far enough to be convenient to sit down for a while was the old great Wreck that had been there for years and years and years.
So there was only a part of it left, pushed deep in the sand, and sand inside, because the sea had eaten away the rest. And it was pale and gray-bleached where it stood up toward the sky, but underneath dark and sodden, with long seaweed weeping off into the water—back and forth—back and forth—forever.
Going up by the rocks on the other side, some strong timbers laid over made a bridge across into the broken place where her ribs showed. There were pale waves churning, flat, in and out among the rocks and below the bridge when they crossed over and came out on the old gray deck with the old black capstan standing in the middle of it; and everywhere around there was water. The Ocean was much larger from here than it was when they were walking on the sand; so large that any ship in the whole wide world might have come sailing across it—and a fair wind blowing. The Princess looked for several minutes, to see if there was coming the finest ship afloat. And there was not; but she hadn’t expected it, because she knew it was not there.