She did not answer at once. Instead she leaned forward with her hands supporting her chin, her elbows in her lap, gazing solemnly at the western stars.
"It is nearly eight o'clock, isn't it?" she asked, without moving her head.
"Yes," replied Dan, "about that. Why?"
"Just now in New York," said Virginia in her low, full tones, "they have finished dining on Broadway. All the lights are, oh, so bright! and women in the most gorgeous spring gowns and men in evening dress are pouring out of the Astor, the Waldorf, the Knickerbocker,—every place,—and stepping into red and green taxi-cabs, or strolling leisurely to see the latest play. And on Fifth Avenue, in the club opposite our house, the same five stout men are just about to occupy the same five stout chairs in the big windows. I have watched them for years, and—" The girl paused. "Our house! Do you suppose my father is there now?" She closed her eyes. "I can almost see him. Of course he is mourning me for lost; and Aunt Helen is trying to comfort him and other persons. But there, I must not think of that, must I?" She turned to Dan and smiled bravely.
"No, you must not," he said gravely. "He is a man; he will bear his grief like a man. And when you return—"
"When I return?" interpolated the girl, quickly. "Have you thought about that, Daniel Merrithew?"
"Not a great deal, except to resolve that if I ever get ashore I shall never again go to sea as a sailor."
"Oh, I don't mean that," said Virginia. "Ever since the night when you were shielding me from the fire—"
Dan raised his hand.
"Anything you said that night, Miss Howland, need cause you no regret, no misgiving. As well judge the words, the actions, of a man who knows he has but an hour to live."