Leaning over the platform she caught it in his clothing and held him up for a moment, calling, above the noise of the breakers, “All right, Ronnie, Father’s coming, Father’s coming!”
It was only for a moment, however, for the weight of the struggling and gasping boy was more than she could hold, and before she knew it she, too, was dragged over the edge of the platform and down into the depths below.
The last despairing screams of both children were heard by the men at the storehouse, and McLean, followed by Stumpy, ran like a deer toward the sounds, pulling off his coat as he went. He scrambled up a rock near the platform and seeing, as he expected, the struggling forms in the depths below, leaped to their rescue. He was only just in time, for, as he caught them and pulled them to the shore, they hung from his grasp like mere bundles of clothing, limp and lifeless.
Stumpy had waded deep into the water to meet the stricken father and carried Ronnie to the land. Together the two men worked over the little bodies, chafing their hands and working their arms up and down to expel the water from their lungs, and before long quivering eyelids and struggles for breath showed the watchers that the two dear lives were saved.
Dripping with water like a merman, McLean rushed for Jenny Lind and the car with Lesley in his arms, followed by Stumpy with the boy. There was a tarpaulin on the car which was to have been used to cover the groceries as they were hauled up to the Lighthouse, and, throwing this over the children, Stumpy held them close while McLean urged the unwilling Jenny Lind over the railway.
Mrs. McLean, whose eyes were never far from the windows when her bairns were abroad, suddenly caught a glimpse of Jenny galloping, saw the two men on the car, and the covered heap beside them. What a lifetime of agony she went through until she reached the door and saw that under the canvas cover the children were breathing, she never could tell you! They were gathered in their parents’ arms, carried upstairs, undressed, dried, rubbed, wrapped in warm flannels, and laid side by side in bed before they could do more than sob and cry out, “Mother, Mother, Mother,” over and over again. Ronald did murmur in a low voice, “Not Lesley’s fault, Mummy; Ronnie’s fault,” but even those few words were only half-spoken, as he dropped off to sleep, worn-out with terror and excitement.
Quivering in every limb with the sudden shock and the fright that had followed it, Mrs. McLean watched her darlings as they slept, while the father, who had told her as much of the accident as he knew himself, sat below, waiting for the waking. It is true that the Lightkeeper had been told nothing as yet of what had happened; but he had found the fish-gaff still caught in Ronald’s clothing and guessed how it had come there.
As Margaret McLean sat quietly beside the bed, Lesley opened her eyes. “Where’s Ronnie?” she asked, with a startled look.
“Here, Lesley, mother’s faithful little Lesley!” cried Margaret, bending over her. “It was you who saved Ronnie and here he is beside you!”
“My Ronnie!” crooned Lesley, lovingly, turning her heavy head toward the round cheek on the pillow, “My Ronnie!”—and so, relieved and comforted, sank softly to sleep again.