I longed to see her, and shook the handle of the door, judging that she would distinguish this sound amid the other noises which prevailed, and, sure enough, the door opened, and her sweet face looked out.
She showed herself fully when she saw me, and came into the cuddy, and was going to address me, but a look of agonized sorrow came into her face; she dropped on her knees before the bench at the table and buried her head, and never was there an attitude of grief more expressive of piteous misery than this.
My belief was that the frightful rolling of the ship had crazed her brain, and that she fancied I had come to tell her we were sinking.
Not to allow this false impression to affect her an instant longer than could be helped, I dropped on one knee by her side, and at once told her that the ship had been eased, and was riding well, and that the gale, as I believed, was breaking.
She shook her head, still keeping her face buried, as though she would say that it was not the danger we were in that had given her that misery.
"Tell me what has happened?" I exclaimed. "Your troubles and trials have been very, very great—too great for you to bear, brave and true-hearted as you are. It unmans me and breaks me down to see you in this attitude. For your own sake, keep up your courage a little longer. The first ship that passes when this gale abates will take us on board; and there are three of us still with you who will never yield an inch to any danger that may come whilst their life holds out and yours remains to be saved."
She upturned her pale face, streaming with tears, and said the simple words, but in a tone I shall never forget—"Papa is dead!"
Was it so, indeed?
And was I so purblind as to wrong her beautiful and heroic character by supposing her capable of being crazed with fears for her own life.
I rose from her side, and stood looking at her in silence. I had nothing to say.