"Is the storm so bad, Hannah?"
"Pretty thick--can't see far ahead--I hope we'll make out to find our way in--that's all I care for."
"How far are we?"
"Not half way yet--I don't know--depends on what headway we make, you know;--there ain't much wind yet, that's a good thing."
"There ain't any danger, is there?"
This of course the chambermaid denied, and a whispered colloquy followed which Fleda did not try to catch. A new feeling came upon her weary heart,--a feeling of fear. There was a sad twinge of a wish that she were out of the boat and safe back again with the Evelyns, and a fresh sense of the unkindness of letting her come away that afternoon so attended. And then with that sickness of heart the forlorn feeling of being alone, of wanting some one at hand to depend upon, to look to. It is true that in case of real danger none such could be a real protection,--and yet not so neither, for strength and decision can live and make live where a moment's faltering will kill, and weakness must often falter of necessity. "All the ways of the Lord are mercy and truth" to his people; she thought of that, and yet she feared, for his ways are often what we do not like. A few moments of sick-heartedness and trembling,--and then Fleda mentally folded her arms about a few other words of the Bible and laid her head down in quiet again.--"The Lord is my refuge and my fortress; my God; in him will I trust."
And then what comes after,--"He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler."
Fleda lay quiet till she was called to tea.
"Bless me, how pale you are!" said the housekeeper, as Fleda raised herself up at this summons,--"do you feel very bad, Miss Fleda?"
Fleda said no.