enough scene that lay before them. No lives had been lost in the wreck;
but there had been a good deal of suffering among the poor passengers,
cooped up between decks, with the hatches closed, while the storm
lasted. Nobody drowned, indeed; but all had been dreadfully soaked in
the surf in getting ashore, and among the rest had been the fair-haired
child, now lying there on his mother's lap, so pinched and blue, and
seemingly so nearly lifeless.

French, were they?

Yes and no; for the father, a tall, stout young man, who looked like a
farmer, told Ford they were from Alsace, and spoke both languages.

"The child, was it sick?"

Not so much "sick" as dying of starvation and exposure. Oh, such a sad,
pleading look as the poor mother lifted to the moist eyes of Mrs.
Kinzer, when the portly widow pushed forward and bent over the silent
boy! Such a pretty child he must have been, and not over two years old;
but the salt water was in his tangled curls now, and his poor lips were
parted in a weak, sick way, that told of utter exhaustion.

"Can any thing be done, mother?"

"Yes, Dabney, there can. You and Ham and Ford and Frank go to the yacht,
quick as you can, and bring the spirit-heater, lamp and all, and bread
and milk, and every dry napkin and towel you can find. Bring Keziah's
shawl."

Such quick time they made across that sand-bar!