"It is his cap," said Bondo, in a low voice, but not so low as to escape the ear of Clarice.
"The sea sent it for a token," said she, without turning her gaze from the fire.
The old people moved up to the hearth.
"Sit down, Emmins," said Briton. "You've served us well to-day." In any trouble Old Briton's comfort was in feeling a stout wall of flesh around him.
Bondo sat down. Then he and Briton helped each other explain the course taken by themselves and the other boat-men that day, and they talked of what they would do on the morrow; but they failed to comfort Clarice, or to awaken in her any hope. She knew that in reality they had no hope themselves.
"They will never come back," said she. "You will never find them."
She spoke so calmly that her father was deceived. If this was her conviction, it would be safe to speak his own.
"The tide may bring the poor fellows in," said he.
At these words the cap which the poor girl held fell from her hand. She spoke no more. No word or cry escaped her,—not by a look did she acknowledge that there was community in this grief,—as solitary as if she were alone in the universe, she sat gazing into the fire. She was not overcome by things external, tangible, as she had been when she sat alone out on the sea-beach at the Point. The world in an instant seemed to sink out of her vision, and time from her consciousness; her soul set out on a search in which her mortal sense had failed,—and here no arm of flesh could help her.
"I shall find him," she said, in a whisper. They all heard her, and looked at one another, trouble and wonder in their faces. "I shall find him," she repeated, in a louder tone; and she drew herself up, and bent forward,—but her eyes saw not the cheerful fire-light, her ears took in no sound of crackling fagot, rising wind, or muttered fear among the three who sat and looked at her.