A woman in the crowd began to cry, "Poor child! Poor child!" For Marie Celeste looked only a child as she lay there, her wet hair tumbled all around her.
"It's too late, she's gone!" someone else said, hopelessly, and Feathers turned like a lion.
"It's not too late," he thundered. He went down on his knees beside her, exhausted as he was, and worked like a giant to save her, and all the time he was wondering what Chris would do, what Chris would say, and if he would be expected to break the news to him.
And then, after a long time, a little shell-like tinge of color crept back to the marble whiteness of Marie's face—the doctor gave a little exclamation, and went on with his work harder than before.
Feathers asked him a harsh question:
"Can we save her?"
"I think so—yes! . . ."
Each moment seemed an eternity, until, with labored, choking breaths and little gasping cries, Marie struggled back to life and the golden summer morning.
Feathers rose to his feet. "I'll go on and tell her husband. You're sure she's out of danger?"
The doctor smiled, well pleased.