"Garth!" And Garth half turned and cuddled in to her with a little sleepy sigh.
* * * * *
The current fled onward, and on its breast the empty skiff danced as though the little waves were playfellows that had come to greet it and to carry it away to join their game. They rocked it gently until it neared the lake; then they grew choppy, and the skiff bobbed and swayed until it was drawn out upon the bosom of the water. It was calm there; but still the tide set seawards, carrying the skiff away and away—over the lake, hurrying, hurrying, until the great grey piers loomed ahead, with the grey waste of the sea dark between them. The roar of the breakers boomed, rising and falling. The lane of water between the piers was smooth: there were no waves; but under the surface were deep eddies, and the skiff spun and quivered over them, still drawn onward and outward towards the bar that leaped and thundered beyond the end of the piers. It reached the bar, and the breakers took it and played with it, flinging it up and down. Their curling crests tossed their spray into it; and still the little boat rode bravely, now in the hollow trough of a wave, now rising on a great curving wall of green water, and dashing forward with the tide out to sea. So, by some strange chance it passed the bar into the long, smooth ocean swells, and drifted to the horizon.
But when, in the night, the tide turned, it brought the little boat back. The pale moon that smiled over the Bush cottage where Garth lay, sleeping calmly, saw it also: a tiny thing on the great waste of waters, desolate and alone. Slowly it drifted landwards until the roar of the surf sounded near, and then it was hurried forward, towards the forsaken beach west of the piers, until a mighty roller caught it on its crest and bore it, mounting ever higher, at racing speed to the shore. It was high in the air when the great wave crashed downwards, and when its hundreds of tons of green water thundered to the sand, the skiff, bottom upwards, was dashed ashore in a swirl of white surf. Once the undertow caught it, dragging it back, but another roller flung itself down, and when its wild rush along the beach had spent itself, the little boat, battered and broken, lay half buried in the sand. The tide ebbed out, leaving it there; and a seabird, screaming by, saw it and perched upon it, calling to its mate.
In the little cottage, Garth slept on: and beside him his mother knelt, one arm flung across the warm, childish body, listening to his soft breathing: dumb with thankfulness.
CHAPTER XVII
'POSSUM BECOMES A PUPIL
"If you could spare a day or two," said Tom Macleod, and looked anxiously at 'Possum. "I think it's fairly rough on you to have to save my son's life one day, and nurse his mother the next, but a woman about the place would be a tremendous comfort, and Aileen would rather have you than any one she knows. She can't lift her head."
"Well, you didn't need to drive over yourself," 'Possum said. "You had no right to leave her! If you'd sent that kid Horrors with a bit of a note, you might a' known I'd be there as quick as old Greystones 'ud bring me. How on earth is she managin', with you traipsin' over here?"
"She was asleep, and Garth is sitting with her," Tom said meekly. "She can't bear him out of her sight; and you know he's pretty handy. Then you'll come back with me, 'Possum?"