Constance, after looking in at the hospital, went on to the service-room. Her father was not there. She glanced up to the trimming-stage, expecting to see him attending to the lamp. No. He had gone. Somewhat bewildered, for she was almost certain he was not in any of the lower apartments, she climbed to the little door in the glass frame.
Ah! There he was, on the landward side of the gallery. What was the matter now? Surely there was not another vessel in distress. However, being relieved from any dubiety as to his whereabouts she went back to the service-room and gave herself the luxury of a moment's rest. Oh, how tired she was! Not until she sat down did she realize what it meant to live as she had lived, and to do all that she had done, during the past four hours.
Her respite was of short duration. Brand, his oilskins gleaming with wet, came in.
"Hello, sweetheart, what's up now?" he cried, in such cheerful voice that she knew all was well.
"That was exactly what I was going to ask you," she said.
"The Falcon is out there," he replied, with a side nod towards Mount's Bay.
Constance knew that the Falcon was a sturdy steam-trawler, a bull-dog little ship, built to face anything in the shape of gales.
"They can do nothing, of course," she commented.
"No. I stood between them and the light for a second, and they evidently understood that I was on the lookout, as a lantern dipped seven times, which I interpreted as meaning that they will return at daybreak. Now they are off to Penzance again."
"They turned safely then?"