"It makes me feel humble, but useless, and I do not care to feel like that," she said. "I want to be doing things. Doesn't life seem barren to you here?"
He shook his head.
"No," he replied. "Life means just as much as we put into it, I fancy, and these days have meant much for me. I should not care to have them blotted out."
She had turned abruptly just as they rolled down on a long swell, and, stumbling against the bitts, with a gasp fell outboard across the low rail.
Drew leaped toward her just in time. His hand, flashing out, caught her as she was slipping from the rail, and brought her back against his breast. For an instant he held her there.
"Hetty! O Hetty!" he gasped, as their eyes met.
"Don't! for pity's sake, don't!" she whispered, and, pulling herself free, sank upon the bitts, put her hands to her face, and laughed hysterically. In a moment she looked up.
"Don't tell them," she said. "I should not like to have them know I fell." Then she walked unsteadily toward the cabin door. Half-way there, she looked back. "I ought to thank you," she said, in a low voice, "and I do." And with that she disappeared.
Medbury, overhauling a spare sail on the main-deck, had not seen it, but the sailor with him had, and his exclamation had made Medbury turn quickly, only to see Hetty standing with Drew's arm about her. He stooped to his work again with shaking fingers; but the sailor stood still, staring.
Medbury glanced at him, his face growing white.