“Go on shore and get some one to bring a chair. She is too ill to walk.”
“Oh, thank you! And will you stay by her?” Louie said.
It was a great deal to ask an officer of a British steamer to do, but something in Louie’s face and eyes pleaded for her, and the man answered with a smile:
“I will see that she is not left alone; and, stay, there is a deck steward now, just off the boat. Hurry and speak to him. Say I sent you.”
Louie needed no further bidding, but made her way on shore as quickly as she could for the crowd jostling each other, and each intent upon his or her own business. The deck steward had disappeared, and, turn which way she would, Louie could see no one on whom she dared call for help. The crowd was pushing her farther from the boat. Friends were greeting friends; there were calls for hands to help with the baggage, and to Louie it seemed as if pandemonium reigned, and she felt her strength giving way, when suddenly heaven opened before her as Fred Lansing put both his hands upon her shoulders, and said, not “Louie,” as Herbert had done, but “Miss Grey, you are here. What can I do for you?”
She did not stop to ask why he was there, or how he knew she was there, but answered:
“I am trying to find some one to help mother. She is sick on the boat.”
He asked no more questions, but seemed to know exactly what to do. Passing his arm around Louie, who, he saw, was near fainting, he said:
“Take me to your mother, and don’t be afraid. I will see to it.”
Louie could never remember exactly what he did, or how it was done. She only knew that in a short time her mother was on shore, in a carriage nearly as luxurious and easy as their own had been. Then Mr. Lansing said to her: