to do anything in such clothing as she wore,
and Billy was not an expert swimmer. Hope's anguish was almost
unbearable; yet, for the moment, Theodora's suffering was greater than
that of her sister. She spoke no word; she only stood, tall and stately
and dry-eyed, staring into the great green, curving waves that had
swallowed up her husband and, with him, all the best that had made life
for her since her girlhood. There was small chance for an inexperienced
swimmer in such a sea as that, least of all for one burdened with the
weight of a four-year-old child.

One. Two. Three. Four. Slowly the pitiless waves came crashing down on
the sand. They were so mighty, so unrelenting in their grim beauty. If
one must be drowned, it would have been better to die in a sunless sea,
not in the gorgeousness of a day like this. Five. Six. Then Theodora
sprang forward with a little, low, choking moan. The seventh wave washed
up at her very feet the form of her husband, still breathing and with
Mac's body dangling from his unconscious grasp.

Under such circumstances, some men would have thanked Providence. Dr.
McAlister was of other stuff.

"Phebe, come here!" he commanded. "You know what to do. You go to work
on Mac, while I try to see if anything can be done for Billy. Work for
your life, for there's a life hanging on yours now."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Yes dear, Uncle Billy was almost drowned, in trying to get you out of
the water."

"Drowned dead, mamma?"

"Yes, Mac."

For a minute, Mac silently contemplated the possibility of his uncle's
dying. Then his face dimpled into a smile once more, as he said,--

"If he was dead, mamma, I should get a little warm 'pirit and put in his
stomach, and ven he would be all well again."

It seemed strange to Hope to be laughing once more. All the night
through, a heavy cloud of anxiety had rested upon Valhalla where one
hero at least was lying. It had been no easy feat which Billy Farrington
had attempted, and no one was more keenly aware of the fact than he,
himself. Well and strong enough for all practical purposes, his physique
in reality was no match for men whose boyhood had been sound, and no
match at all for the fury of Quantuck surf in a gale. He had realized
all that, yet he had not hesitated for an instant as to what was the
one thing for him to do. Billy's code of honor was a simple one and a
straight-forward. It even included the possibility of laying down one's
life