She resisted feebly.
“No—no till they’re a’ safe; no till I see Willie.”
Miss Crankie carried the child into Schole. Christian and Anne wrapped the young mother in a shawl, and supported her.—Her limbs were rigid with the terrible vigil. She gazed in agony towards the ship, and murmured:
“He’ll no leave it till the last; he’ll no save himsel till a’body else is saved. Oh! the Lord keep him—Willie!—Willie!”
And there they remained till six heroic voyages had been made to the helpless vessel. They were all saved at last. The last, the husband of the young woman, and captain of the ship, fighting his own way to the shore; he had more strength or nerve than the rest.
And who had done it all? The light from the lantern streamed for a moment on his face—that pale susceptible face, whose delicate features spoke so eloquently the language of expression—the thin hair clung to his white temples; his eyes were shining with unnatural excitement—with something which looked like an unnatural vehemence of hope. It was Patrick Lillie!
The bystanders and the saved men alike poured into Schole; they were all assembled in the large old-fashioned kitchen. Their deliverer had disappeared. Miss Crankie, alert and active, went about, briskly helping all. Christian was there, and Anne.—Seven lives in all had been saved by Patrick Lillie. The young wife of the captain lay almost insensible in an easy chair; she had borne the extremity of danger bravely, but now she sank—the over-strained nerves gave way—she could hardly answer the inquiries of her husband.
By and by, under Christian’s directions, he carried her to a small room upstairs, where a bed had been hastily prepared for her. Anne volunteered her attendance, and rendered it with all care and tenderness; she was left alone with the young mother, Christian and the captain of the ill-fated vessel in the meantime arranging for the accommodation of the men.
The rigid limbs of Anne’s patient relaxed at last; the chill was gradually overcome, and about an hour after they had been brought within the sheltering walls of Schole, Anne received the infant from Miss Crankie to satisfy the eager mother. The strangers by this time were gone; the shipwrecked men were accommodated as well as might be in the comfortable kitchen.—Miss Crankie herself, when there remained nothing further to be done, departed also—only Anne continued with her patient—she had not seen either Patrick or Christian again.
Drawing the baby to her breast, the young mother soon fell into a refreshing sleep. Anne sat thoughtfully by her bed-side—now and then she heard a footstep below testifying that the household was still astir. She was anxious to remain as long as possible—to endeavor to open some communication with this singular brother and sister. For the moment she had forgotten Jean Miller’s history, and shuddered and trembled as she remembered it—would they avoid her still?