“Oh, surely in his own good time!  I have done nothing so very wicked, I hope, as to exclude me from my Father’s face forever—­have you?  Now, don’t be frightened; speak calmly.”

“I don’t know—­I don’t know.  I should be afraid not to call myself desperately wicked at such a time; he says we all are, you know.  We are all miserable sinners.”

“It is very abject to talk and feel thus, and I don’t believe that God approves of it,” I said, indignantly.  “He gives us self-respect, and commands us to cherish it.  Such abasement is unworthy of Christian souls.  It is very bitter to die, as young as we are; but, if we have done our best to serve Him, we need—­we ought not to be afraid to meet our God.”

She clung to my outstretched hand.  She strengthened my spirit by the fullness of her need.  The feeble widow with her child, too, crept close to me, weeping and trembling.

“Do not leave me,” she entreated; “let us stay together to the very last.”

“Nay, that may be a long time,” I answered, smiling feebly, and nerved for the first time to encouragement; “for the captain will do his best to save his passengers—­the women especially, I cannot doubt; and see what bounteous provision he is making for their support!”

And I pointed to the piles of flour and sugar barrels, the boxes of crackers and of hams; of figs and raisins, the hampers of wine and ale, which were profusely piled on the quarter-deck ready for lowering to the rafts.

“He means to take care of us, you see, by the permission of Providence,” I said, almost strengthened by this dependence, “and we will remain calmly together, and drink whatever cup God offers us—­humbly, I hope.”  Yet, even as I spoke, my heart rebelled against the fiat of my fate, and the young life within me rose up in fierce conflict with its doom.

At this moment of bitter strife of heart, Mr. Dunmore, the youthful poet of whom I have already spoken, stood before me.

“I have found you at last,” he said, “deputed as I am to do so by Miss Lamarque.  It is a point of honor with her to care for you personally in this crisis.  You know Major Favraud placed you under her care; besides that, her regard for you impels this request.  She bids me say—­”

I interrupted him hastily.

“This is no time for ceremonials, truly, Mr. Dunmore; yet, had family concurrence been perfect, it seems to me that her brother might have undertaken this mission.  I have no wish to thrust myself undesired into any household circle at such a crisis.”

“He is wholly absorbed with his children.”

“As he ought to be, Mr. Dunmore, and, when the time of peril comes, it is of their needs alone that he will and must think.  I am alone in this vessel, as I shall remain.  I did not leave Savannah under Miss Lamarque’s care.  She is very generous, very considerate, but I will not embarrass her motions, nor yours, nor any one’s.  It is the duty of Captain Ambrose to see to the welfare of his female passengers.  I shall not be forgotten among these—­”