“Ailie,” interrupted Glynn, taking her hand, and holding up his finger to impose silence, “you obeyed me in the water, and now I insist on your obedience out of the water. If you don’t, I’ll leave you. You’re still too weak to toss about and speak loud in this way. Lie down, my pet.”
Glynn kissed her forehead, and forced her gently back on the pillow.
“Well, I’ll be good, but don’t leave me yet, Glynn. I’m much better. Indeed, I feel quite strong. Oh! it was good of you—”
“There you go again.”
“I love you,” said Ailie.
“I’ve no objection to that,” replied Glynn, “but don’t excite yourself. But tell me, Ailie, how was it that you managed to keep afloat so long? The more I think of it the more I am filled with amazement, and, in fact, I’m half inclined to think that God worked a miracle in order to save you.”
“I don’t know,” said Ailie, looking very grave and earnest, as she always did when our Maker’s name happened to be mentioned. “Does God work miracles still?”
“Men say not,” replied Glynn.
“I’m sure I don’t quite understand what a miracle is,” continued Ailie, “although Aunt Martha and Aunt Jane have often tried to explain it to me. Is floating on your back a miracle?”
“No,” said Glynn, laughing; “it isn’t.”