"Well," she said, greeting him with a smile, "is this Crusoe land?"
For a moment he thought of hiding the real facts of the case, but on reflecting that she must shortly discover them herself, he made known their deplorable position to her. Before the recital was over she was weeping bitterly.
"Don't, don't, please don't, Miss Bertha," said Ben, piteously. "You quite unman me. It may not be so bad after all. Some boat might come this way, or we may be able to make our presence known to those who can rescue us. While there is life there is hope. The Hand that drew us hither, will not leave us here to perish, be assured."
Bertha arose and placing both hands on his breast looked him mournfully in the face, as she controlled her feelings, and said:
"I have confidence in Him, my good friend, and if I give way to weakness you must remember the dreadful trials we have passed through; nay, that we are now passing through, and that have made me physically weak, and oh!—" and the lips quivered and the grey eyes again filled with tears; "I—I feel so wretched!"
Now by all authorities—that is, written authorities,—Benjamin Cleveland should have drawn himself apart from the innocent being fate had cast him alone upon this island sand bar with, and been too high-minded to take advantage of circumstances. He should have occupied a high moral plane, in which even a platonic passion would have found no existence, and consoled her with dull platitudes and stilted phraseology. They all do it that way—in the novels. Alas, Ben did nothing of the sort. He acted on impulse. He wound his arms about the fair form and pressed it close to his breast, and as she pillowed her head on his shoulder he kissed her hair, her forehead, her cheeks times innumerable. And she liked it; she felt better!!
He said not a word, for he had nothing to say, but he petted her like a mother would her child, until her drooping spirits revived and she smiled at his endeavors in her behalf. From his own condition he readily appreciated the feelings of his companion. There was a growling, discontented vacuum loud in its demands to be filled; that sick, weak feeling of hunger that succeeds exertion and exposure. They were both hungry—very hungry; for hunger makes louder demands at the commencement of privations than it does after time has allowed the muscles of the system to contract and close with a tight grip upon starvation's emptiness. Added to their unappeased appetites, was the miserable, creeping, disgusting feeling occasioned by wet clothes filled with irritating sand. These are humble details, we will admit; but they were the gigantic realities of the moment to the castaways. Ben realized the facts and actively engaged his mind in search of a remedy.
"Miss Bertha," he said, "let us at least make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances will permit. These wet and stiffening clothes, filled with river sand, are unbearable. Listen to me. I will go to the other end of the island and wash the sand out of mine, and do you remain here on the sunny end and do the same. Hang them on the cottonwood bushes until they are thoroughly dry, and keep yourself in the warm sunshine. Exercise too—run, jump, or do what you please so as to keep the blood in circulation; it is positively necessary for us to do all in our power to court health and comfort, or we will sink down under exposure. I will not be back for two hours."
In her loneliness she was loth to part with him at all, but he said reassuringly:
"I will be within hail, and as there is not a living thing on the island, you need not fear intrusion," and then kissing her tenderly, (for he had got into that pleasant fashion and his caresses had never yet so much as brought the faintest blush to her cheek—or his) Ben walked to the upper end of the sand bar, behind the cottonwoods, and there disrobed.