"It must be a point," said Ben; "a neck of land jutting out into the river. Let us follow it up."
So hand in hand, like two full grown babes in the woods, they walked down the sand that skirted the cottonwood brake. In less than half a mile they came to the end of the brake, and a rod farther brought them again to water. Ben stood speechless. Slowly he turned to his companion, whose wistful, confiding gaze nearly unmanned him.
"Bertha," at last he said, huskily, "we are on an island."
Bertha hid her face in her hands and bowed down in grief at this dire information.
"Don't cry," said Ben simply and soothingly, and, it must be confessed, wrapping his arms about her drooping form, and soothing her head on his bosom as gently as a mother could have caressed it. "Don't cry. The Hand that brought us here can take us off again. The river has spared us; fear not but we will get off of the island safely."
And with many gentle endearments and soothing speeches he restored her.
"You are shivering with the cold, Miss Bertha," he said.
"I am cold, very cold, dear friend," she replied; "but so are you. Think of yourself. Put on your coat again. Morning cannot be far off, and then the sun will dry and warm us."
But Ben refused the coat, and knew that morning was some hours distant, and that the coldest portion of the night was yet to come upon them, before the sun arose and warmed all nature back to life. So he drew Bertha into the centre of the cottonwood brake, that protected them from the night breeze now keenly felt sweeping down the river. Then he prepared a bed out of twigs and leaves, and bidding her lie down he spread his coat over her and piled leaves and boughs high up around her. Ere long his labors were rewarded by hearing her draw the deep, regular breath of slumber. Then he laid down beside her, and exhausted nature courted sleep, despite the shiverings of his cold wet body.
When our hero awoke the sun was shining down upon him from a cloudless sky. There were also shining upon him two great, glorious, grey eyes, as Bertha sat a short distance away, contemplating him sadly. He noticed with a thrill of pleasure that she had carefully covered him with the coat, and heaped the twigs and boughs, that had formed her own bed, about him. The young lady must have been awake some time, for with the instinct predominant in her sex, she had made some futile attempts at a toilet. Her dishevelled and sand-ladened hair was coiled in a mass of not unpleasing snarls, and over it she had tied her dainty lace handkerchief, having had no hat on her head at the time of the catastrophe. The drapery of her rich dress was sadly creased and wrinkled, and she wore all the appearance of a young lady that had taken an involuntary bath, and then been only partially wrung out. A memory of the array of good taste, wealth and fashion that passed him on Olive Street, in St. Louis, flitted through Ben's mind, and in spite of himself he smiled at the contrast. She evidently understood what was upper-most in his mind, for returning smile for smile, she said: