Courage first thought she discovered a familiar boat away down the river, and then in a moment there was no longer a doubt of it. The lighter, with her one broad sail spread to the wind, came slowly nearer and nearer, and Courage in her eagerness stood way out on the farthermost corner of the dock, so that Larry caught sight of her long before she put her two hands to her mouth, trumpet fashion, and called, “Hello there, Larry,” at the top of her strong little lungs.
“Hello there, Courage,” rang back Larry's cheery answer, as leaning hard against the tiller, he swung his boat into place with the skill of a long-time sailor.
“I knew you'd find out somehow that I was coming,” he called, and then in another second he was ashore and had Courage's two hands held fast in his, and was gazing gladly into her face. But instantly the look of greeting in her eyes faded out of them. She could find no words for the sad news she had to tell. Larry was quick to see her trouble, and his voice trembled as he asked, “Why, Courage, child, what has happened?” and then he drew her to a seat beside him on a great beam that flanked the wharf.
It was easier to speak, now that she could look away from Larry's expressive face, and she said slowly, “The saddest thing that could happen, Larry. Papa——” and then she could go no further.
“You don't mean that your father is——” but neither could Larry bring himself to voice the fatal, four-lettered little word.