He went home for a moment, and then
followed me to my lodging. Polly and her old friend were still watching
the child.
'I think he's a little better, sir,' she said; 'he's quieter. Oh, Mr.
Christie, I _am_ glad to see you, sir! Will you pray, sir? I think
I shall hear the wind less if you pray!'
We knelt down beside the child's bed, but the noise of the storm almost
drowned his voice. At the end of the prayer the child began once more to
cry for his father, so piteously, so beseechingly, that at last I could
bear it no longer, but ran downstairs, to be out of the sound of that
touching little voice. Mr. Christie soon followed me, and we went out
together in the grey light of that terrible morning.
'The child is dying, Jack,' he said.
'Oh, don't say so, Mr. Christie!' I answered; 'dying before his father
comes back.'
'God grant he _may_ come back!' he said; 'look at the sea, Jack.'
The sea was dashing wildly against the rocks, and the noise of the wind
was so great we could hardly hear our own voices. In the dim uncertain
light we could at length distinguish a group of anxious watchers on the
shore.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98