All night I sat upon the deck of the Sparhawk, thinking, wondering, and conjecturing.  I was in a strange state of mind.  I did not wonder or conjecture whether Bertha’s vessel would come back to me again; I did not think of what I should do if it did come back.  I did not think of what I should do if it never came back.  All night I thought, wondered, and conjectured what Mary Phillips had meant by the word “but.”

It was plain to me what “yes” had meant.  My message had been heard, and I knew Mary Phillips well enough to feel positively sure that having received such a message under such circumstances she had given it to Bertha.  Therefore I had positive proof that Bertha knew that I loved her.  But what did the “but” mean?

It seemed to me that there were a thousand things that this word might mean.  It might mean that she was already engaged to be married.  It might mean that she had vowed never to marry.  It might mean that she disapproved of such words at such a time.  I cannot repeat the tenth of the meanings which I thought I might attach to this word.  But the worst thing that it could purport, the most terrible signification of all, recurred to me over and over again.  It might mean that Bertha could not return my affection.  She knew that I loved her, but she could not love me.

In the morning I ate something and then lay down upon the deck to sleep.  It was well that I should do this, I thought, because if Bertha came near me again in the daytime Mary Phillips would hail me if I were not awake.  All night long I would watch, and, as there was a moon, I would see Bertha’s vessel if it came again.

I did watch all that afternoon and all that night, and during my watching I never ceased to wonder and conjecture what Mary Phillips meant by that word “but.”

About the middle of the next day I saw in the distance something upon the water.  I first thought it a bit of spray, for it was white, but as there were now no waves there could be no spray.  With the glass I could only see that it was something white shining in the sun.  It might be the glistening body of a dead fish.  After a time it became plainer to me.  It was such a little object that the faint breezes which occasionally arose had more influence upon the Sparhawk than upon it, and so I gradually approached it.

In about an hour I made out that it was something round, with something white raised above it, and then I discovered that it was a life-preserver, which supported a little stick, to which a white flag, probably a handkerchief, was attached.  Then I saw that on the life-preserver lay a little yellow mass.

Now I knew what it was that I saw.  It was a message from Bertha.  Mary Phillips had devised the means of sending it.  Bertha had sent it.

The life-preserver was a circular one, filled with air.  In the centre of this, Mary, by means of many strings, had probably secured a stick in an upright position; she had then fastened a handkerchief to the top of the stick.  Bertha had written a message and Mary had wrapped it in a piece of oiled silk and fastened it to the life-preserver.  She had then lowered this contrivance to the surface of the water, hoping that it would float to me or I would float to it.