The boy leaned down and held out his hand.
"I'll pull," he said. "Just hang on to me."
Only once again did he speak during that endless climb in the silence of the dying ship, and what he said came in gasps. He was pulling indeed.
"About—that airtrunk," he managed to say—"I'm—sorry, sir!"
The dawn came up out of the sea, like resurrection. In the Quartermaster's boat the woman slept heavily, with tears on her cheeks. The Quartermaster looked infinitely old and very tired with living.
It was the girl, after all, who spied them—two figures—one inert and almost lifeless; one very like a bobbing tomato, but revealing a blue face and two desperate eyes above a ship's lifebelt.
The Chief came to an hour or so later and found the woman near, pale and tragic, and not so young as he had kept her in his heart. His eyes rested on hers a moment; the bitterness was gone, and the ache. He had died and lived again, and what was past was past.
"I thought," said the woman tremulously—"all night I thought that you——"
The Chief, coming to full consciousness, gave a little cry. His eyes, travelling past hers, had happened on a small and languid youngster curled up at his feet, asleep. The woman drew back—as from an intrusion.