Shall us?" said Pen.

"I think so," replied Pauline.

There was a strange sensation in her throat, and a mist before her eyes.
Her feet were so icy cold that it was with difficulty she could keep
herself from slipping.

"Which prayer shall we say?" asked Harry. "There's a lot of them. There's
our special private prayers in which we say, 'God bless father and
mother;' and then there's 'Our Father.'"

"'Our Father' is best," said Pauline.

The children began repeating it in a sing-song fashion. Suddenly Pen
violently clutched hold of Pauline.

"Will God forgive our badnesses?" she asked.

"He will--I know He will," answered Pauline; and just at that instant
there came a cry from Harry.

"A boat! a boat!" he shrieked. "And it's coming our way. I knew Nellie
was a brick. I knew she'd do it."

A boat rowed by four men came faster and faster over the waves. By-and-by
it was within a stone's-throw of the children. A big man sat in the
stern. Harry glanced at him.

"Why, it's father!" he cried. "Oh, father, why did you come home? I
thought you had gone away for the day. Father, I wasn't a bit afraid to
drown--not really, I mean. I hope Nellie told you."

"Yes, my brave boy. Now, see, when I hold out my hand, spring up
carefully or the boat will capsize."

The next instant a stalwart hand and arm were stretched across the
rapidly rising waves, and Harry, with a bound, was in the boat.

"Lie down in the boat, and stay as quiet as a mouse," said his father.

Pauline, already up to her waist in water, struggled a step or two and
was dragged into the boat; while two of the men bent over, and, catching
Penelope round the waist, lifted her into their ark of shelter.

"It was touch-and-go, sir," said one of the sailors who had accompanied
Harry's father. "Five minutes later and we could have done no good."

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE DULL WEIGHT.

The rest of that day passed for Pauline in a sort of dream. She felt no
fear nor pain nor remorse. She lay in bed with a languid and sleepy
sensation. Aunt Sophia went in and out of the room; she was all kindness
and sympathy. Several times she bent down and kissed the child's hot
forehead. It gave Pauline neither pain nor pleasure when her aunt did
that; she was, in short, incapable of any emotion. When the doctor came
at night his face looked grave.

"The little girl is all right," he said. "She has had a terrible fright,
but a good night's rest will quite restore h