ns of distress we could manage. I
stood up and waved Hilda's white shawl frantically in the air. There was
half an hour of suspense, and our hearts sank as we thought that they
were about to pass us. Then the steamer hove to a little and seemed to
notice us. Next instant we dropped upon our knees, for we saw they were
lowering a boat. They were coming to our aid. They would be in time to
save us.

Hilda watched our rescuers with parted lips and agonised eyes. Then she
felt Sebastian's pulse. "Thank Heaven," she cried, "he still lives! They
will be here before he is quite past confession."

Sebastian opened his eyes dreamily. "A boat?" he asked.

"Yes, a boat!"

"Then you have gained your point, child. I am able to collect myself.
Give me a few hours' more life, and what I can do to make amends to you
shall be done."

I don't know why, but it seemed longer between the time when the boat
was lowered and the moment when it reached us than it had seemed during
the three days and nights we lay tossing about helplessly on the open
Atlantic. There were times when we could hardly believe it was really
moving. At last, however, it reached us, and we saw the kindly faces and
outstretched hands of our rescuers. Hilda clung to Sebastian with a wild
clasp as the men reached out for her.

"No, take HIM first!" she cried, when the sailors, after the custom of
men, tried to help her into the gig before attempting to save us; "his
life is worth more to me than my own. Take him--and for God's sake lift
him gently, for he is nearly gone!"

They took him aboard and laid him down in the stern. Then, and then
only, Hilda stepped into the boat, and I staggered after her. The
officer in charge, a kind young Irishman, had had the foresight to bring
brandy and a little beef essence. We ate and drank what we dared as
they rowed us back to the steamer. Sebastian lay back, with his white
eyelashes closed over the lids, and the livid hue of death upon his
emaciated cheeks; but he drank a teaspoonful or two of brandy, and
swallowed the beef essence with which Hilda fed him.

"Your father is the most exhausted of the party," the officer said, in a
low undertone. "Poor fellow, he is too old for such adventures. He seems
to have hardly a spark of life left in him."

Hilda shuddered with evident horror. "He is not my father--thank
Heaven!" she cried, leaning over him and supporting his drooping head,
in spite of her own fatigue and the cold th