"Does thee know the voices, Bowlegs?"—in a dry whisper.
"It be the wreckers."
"Oh!—Derrick," after a pause, "would be too weak to cheer; he'd be worn with the swimmin'. Thee must listen sharp. Did they cry my name out? as if there was some 'ut for me?"
"No, Mother," gruffly. "But don't ye lose heart after twenty years' waitin'."
"I'll not."
As he pulled, the boatman looked over at her steadily.
"I never knowed what this was for ye, till now I've loss Ben," he said, gently. "It's as if you'd been lossin' him every day these twenty years."
She did not hear him; her eyes, straining, scanned the shore; she seemed to grow blind as they came nearer; passed her wet sleeve over them again and again.
"Thee look for me, Bowlegs," she said, weakly.
The yawl grated on the shallow waters of the bar; the crowd rushed down to the edge of the shore, the black figures coming out distinct now, half a dozen of the wreckers going into the surf and dragging the boat up on the beach. She turned her head out to sea, catching his arm with both hands.