By this time I needed food also, but I did not remain below to eat it.  I brought my breakfast on deck, keeping my eyes all the time fixed upon Bertha’s steamer.  The distance between us did not seem to have varied.  How I longed for a little breeze that might bring us together!  Bertha was on that vessel, trusting, perhaps, entirely to me:  and what could I do if some breeze did not bring us together?  I looked about for something on which I might float to her; but if I made a raft I was not sure that I could steer or propel it, and I might float away and become a third derelict.  Once I thought of boldly springing into the water, and swimming to her; but the distance was considerable, my swimming powers were only moderate, and there might be sharks.  The risk was too great.  But surely we would come together.  Even if no kind wind arose, there was that strange attraction which draws to each other the bubbles on a cup of tea.  If bubbles, why not ships?

It was not long before nearly one-half of Mary Phillips appeared above the rail.  “Miss Nugent aas come on deck,” she cried, “and she wants to see you.  She can’t stand up very long, because everything is so sliding.”

Before my trembling lips could frame an answer, she had bobbed out of sight, and presently reappeared supporting another person, and that other person was Bertha Nugent.

I could discern her features perfectly.  She was thinner and paler than when I had last seen her, but her beauty was all there.  The same smile which I had seen so often was upon her face as she waved her handkerchief to me.  I waved my hat in return, but I tried two or three times before I could speak loud enough for her to hear me.  Then I threw into my words all the good cheer and hope that I could.

She did not attempt to answer, but smiled more brightly than before.  Her expression seemed to indicate that, apart from the extraordinary pleasure of meeting a friend on this waste of waters, she was glad that I was that friend.

“She can’t speak loud enough for you to hear her,” called out Mary Phillips, “but she says that now you are here she thinks everything will be all right.  She wants to know if you are alone on your ship, and if you can come to us.”

I explained my situation, but said I did not doubt but the two ships would gradually drift together.  “Is there no one to lower your boat?” I asked.

“No one but me,” answered Mary, “and I don’t believe I am up to that sort of thing.  Miss Nugent says I must not touch it for fear I might fall overboard.”

“Do you mean to say,” I cried, “that there is nobody but you two on board that steamer?”

“No other living soul!” said Mary, “and I’ll tell you how it all happened.”

Then she told their story.  The friends with whom Miss Nugent had travelled had determined to go to Egypt, but as she did not wish to accompany them, she had remained in Spain and Algiers during the early spring, and, eleven days before, she and Mary Phillips had started from Marseilles for home in the steamer La Fidelite.  Five days ago, the steamer had collided in the night with something, Mary did not know what, and her front part was filled with water.  Everybody was sure that the vessel would soon sink, and the captain, crew, and passengers—­all French—­went away in boats.