oots and stockings. But we may well spare
him those.... Oh, I say!.... Yes, do have a good cry. Don't mind me. And
don't you think between us we could remember some sort of a prayer? For
if ever two people faced death together, we have faced it; and, by God's
mercy, here we are--alive."

CHAPTER XI

'TWIXT SEA AND SKY

Myra never forgot Jim Airth's prayer. Instinctively she knew it to be the
first time he had voiced his soul's thanksgiving or petitions in the
presence of another. Also she realised that, for the first time in her
whole life, prayer became to her a reality. As she crouched on the ledge
beside him, shaking uncontrollably, so that, but for his arm about her,
she must have lost her balance and fallen; as she heard that strong soul
expressing in simple unorthodox language its gratitude for life and
safety, mingled with earnest petition for keeping through the night and
complete deliverance in the morning; it seemed to Myra that the heavens
opened, and the felt presence of God surrounded them in their strange
isolation.

An immense peace filled her. By the time those disjointed halting
sentences were finished, Myra had ceased trembling; and when Jim Airth,
suddenly at a loss how else to wind up his prayer, commenced "Our Father,
Who art in heaven," Myra's sweet voice united with his, full of an
earnest fervour of petition.

At the final words, Jim Airth withdrew his arm, and a shy silence fell
between them. The emotion of the mind had awakened an awkwardness of
body. In that uniting "_Our_ Father," their souls had leapt on, beyond
where their bodies were quite prepared to follow.

Lady Ingleby saved the situation. She turned to Jim Airth, with that
impulsive sweetness which could never be withstood. In the rapidly
deepening twilight, he could just see the large wistful grey eyes, in the
white oval of her face.

"Do you know," she said, "I really couldn't possibly sit all night, on a
ledge the size of a Chesterfield sofa, with a person I had to call 'Mr.'
I could only sit there with an old and intimate friend, who would
naturally call me 'Myra,' and whom I might call 'Jim.' Unless I may call
you 'Jim,' I shall insist on climbing down and swimming home. And if you
address me as 'Mrs. O'Mara,' I shall certainly become hysterical, and
tumble off!"

"Why of course," said Jim Airth. "I hate titles of any kind. I come of an
old Quaker stock, and plain names with no prefixes always seem best to
me.