Sinking to his knees the atheist lifted his eyes to the heavens, and with his feeble voice and the fervor born of helplessness, prayed to the God that he denied. He begged for the life of the waif in his care—for the safety of the mother, so needful to the little one—and for courage and strength to do his part and bring them together. But beyond the appeal for help in the service of others, not one word or expressed thought of his prayer included himself as a beneficiary. So much for pride. As he rose to his feet, the flying-jib of a bark appeared around the corner of ice to the right of the beach, and a moment later the whole moon-lit fabric came into view, wafted along by the faint westerly air, not half a mile away.
He sprang to the fire, forgetting his pain, and throwing on wood, made a blaze. He hailed, in a frenzy of excitement: “Bark ahoy! Bark ahoy! Take us off,” and a deep-toned answer came across the water.
“Wake up, Myra,” he cried, as he lifted the child; “wake up. We’re going away.”
“We goin’ to mamma?” she asked, with no symptoms of crying.
“Yes, we’re going to mamma now—that is,” he added to himself; “if that clause in the prayer is considered.”
Fifteen minutes later as he watched the approach of a white quarter-boat, he muttered: “That bark was there—half a mile back in this wind—before I thought of praying. Is that prayer answered? Is she safe?”
CHAPTER X
ON the first floor of the London Royal Exchange is a large apartment studded with desks, around and between which surges a hurrying, shouting crowd of brokers, clerks, and messengers.