out it is something of the same
build as yours."

There was instant excitement. Could it be another of the ship's
boats?

It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discover
that she did indeed belong to the ill-fated _Cora_. The crowd on
the beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and her
worn-out occupants were disembarked.

Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful,
feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though they
pressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed,
there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come.
There was but one interpretation to put on this--they had never
left the ship.

"Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband was
missing.

"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only
got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no
time for anything."

There is no describing the misery of the day that followed--the
terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had
of the nightmare experience.

The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough
way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange
some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for
them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account
of snakes and other disagreeables.

Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very
painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps
fortunate for the poor lady--it gave her less time for brooding
over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then
fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her
to try.

Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hovering
about his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inaction
began to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for a
while, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself.
However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his mother
lonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and her
sorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.

"She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," he
argued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one to
comfort her."

But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and
then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when