hness. But he could
not resent her conduct; he believed what he did and forgave her; he
believed it, and loved her.

There were moments when it was delightful for them to be as they were. As
they held fast to each other, though drenched and exhausted and in mortal
peril, they had a sensation as if they were warm. The hearts were beating
hotly clean through the wet frames and the dripping clothing.

"Oh, my love!" was a phrase which Clara repeated many times with an air of
deep content.

Once she said, "My love, I never thought to die so easily. How horrible it
would have been without you!"

Again she murmured, "I have prayed many, many times to have you. I did not
know how the answer would come. But this is it."

"My darling, I have had visions about you," was another of these
confessions. "When I had been praying for you nearly all one night, there
was a great light came into the room. It was some promise for you. I knew
it was then; something told me so. Oh, how happy I was!"

Presently she added, "My dear love, we shall be just as happy as that. We
shall live in great light together. God will be pleased to see plainly how
we love each other."

Her only complaints were a patient "Isn't it hard?" when a new billow had
covered her from head to foot, crushed her pitilessly against the shrouds,
and nearly smothered her.

The next words would perhaps be, "I am so sorry for you, my darling. I
wish for your sake that you had not come. But oh, how you help me!"

"I am glad to be here," firmly and honestly and passionately responded the
young man, raising her wet hand and covering it with kisses. "But you
shall not die."

He was bearing like a man and she like a woman. He was resolved to fight
his battle to the last; she was weak, resigned, gentle, and ready for
heaven.

The land, even to its minor features, was now distinctly visible, not more
than a mile to leeward. As they rose on the billows they could distinguish
the long beach, the grassy slopes, and wooded knolls beyond it, the green
lawn on which stood the village of Monterey, the whitewashed walls and
red-tiled roofs of the houses, and the groups of people who were watching
the oncoming tragedy.

"Are you not going to launch the boats?" shouted Thurstane after a glance
at the awful line of frothing breakers which careered back and forth
athwart the beach.

"They are both stove," returned the captain calmly. "We must go ashore as
we are."

CHAP