"And my own dear father saved me," she said in quivering tones, her arms about his neck, her face half hidden on his breast.
"It was a narrow escape, my child," he sighed, repeating his caresses, "a very narrow escape; and what would I have done had I lost my dear eldest daughter? You must not try it again; don't venture on deck again until I give you permission."
"I will not, papa," she returned. "But oh, haven't you been up all night? can't you take some rest now?"
"Not yet; perhaps after a little. There, there, do not look so distressed," smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "You must remember I am an old sailor and used to such vigils. I had a cup of coffee and a biscuit a while ago which quite refreshed me."
"But can't you go to your berth now and take some hours of rest and sleep, papa, dear?" she asked entreatingly, her eyes gazing lovingly into his. "Surely someone among your men must be fit to take charge of the yacht for a while."
"Not just yet, daughter; perhaps before long I can do so. I must leave you now and go back to my duties; and do you go to your stateroom and thank your heavenly Father for your escape from a watery grave."
With that he released her and hurried away up the cabin stairs, she following him with looks of yearning affection till he disappeared from view, then hastening to obey his parting injunction.
Her heart was full of love and gratitude to God for her spared life, and that thus far they had escaped shipwreck, and even as she gave thanks it seemed to her that there was a lull in the storm—the wind almost ceasing to blow and the vessel rocking much less.
"Oh, Gracie," she said, as she rose from her knees and perceived that her sister's eyes were open, "I do think—I do hope that the worst of the storm is over."