"Yes. God grant that it may be so."
"Amen!" said McLeod solemnly.
For some minutes they leaned on the rail in silence. Her eyes were fixed on the water, which was flowing upstream with the rising tide. McLeod was looking away up the river to where he could distinguish the little passenger launch emerging from a fleet of cargo boats and bat-winged junks. It was steaming straight down the river at full speed. Presently he said:
"I wonder what's up. The launch is heading for us instead of going to her jetty."
"There are some Europeans on her," Miss MacAllister replied. "I can see two men wearing helmets under the awning. They evidently are coming on board."
Then she uttered a faint cry. One of the men had stepped from under the awning and stood at his full height on the bow of the launch. The next instant he took off his helmet and waved it at McLeod. The sunlight gleamed on a mass of fair hair.
"Oh!" she said. "It is Dr. Sinclair. As he stood up I thought it was Allister. Their figures are exactly alike. But it was foolish of me."
McLeod seemed hardly to heed what she was saying. He had climbed on the rail, was frantically waving his white cap, and yelling like a schoolboy.
"What cronies you two are!" she said with mock severity, but laughing all the while. "Talk about the Scotch being clannish! You Canadians beat anything I ever met for clannishness."
"Just some Canadians," answered McLeod. "Will you excuse me?" he called back as he went below.