“Already! the road has never appeared so short to me before.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Wolston, coming up to her daughter, “you appear very merry.”

“Well, not without reason, mamma; I have just restored peace to the world.”

The pinnace was soon launched, and, under the guidance of Willis, was making way in the direction of Waldeck.  The sea had not yet recovered from the effects of the recent storm; it was still, to use an expression of Willis, “a trifle ugly.”  Occasionally the waves would catch the frail craft amidships, and make it lurch in an uncomfortable fashion, especially as regarded the ladies, which obliged Willis to keep closer in shore than was quite to his taste.  The briny element still bore traces of its recent rage, just as anger lingers on the human face, even after it has quitted the heart.

Whilst the pinnace was in the midst of a series of irregular gyrations, a shrill scream suddenly rent the air, and at the same instant Fritz and Willis leaped overboard.

Mary had fallen into the sea.

Becker strained every nerve to stay the boat.  Mrs. Wolston fell on her knees with outstretched hands, but, though in the attitude of prayer, not a word escaped her pallid lips.

The two men floated for a moment over the spot where the poor girl had sunk; suddenly Fritz disappeared, his keen eye had been of service here, for it enabled him to descry the object sought.  In a few seconds he rose to the surface with Mary’s inanimate body in his left arm.  Willis hastened to assist him in bearing the precious burden to the boat, and Becker’s powerful arms drew it on deck.

The joy that all naturally would have felt when this was accomplished had no time to enter their breasts, for they saw that the body evinced no signs of life, and a fear that the vital spark had already fled caused every frame to shudder.  They felt that not a moment was to be lost; the resources of the boat were hastily put in requisition; mattresses, sheets, blankets, and dry clothes were strewn upon the deck.  Mrs. Wolston had altogether lost her presence of mind, and could do nothing but press the dripping form of her daughter to her bosom.

“Friction must be tried instantly,” cried Becker; “here, take this flannel and rub her body smartly with it—­particularly her breast and back.”

Mrs. Wolston instinctively followed these directions.

“It is of importance to warm her feet,” continued Becker; “but, unfortunately, we have no means on board to make a fire.”

Mrs. Wolston, in her trepidation, began breathing upon them.

“I have heard,” said the Pilot, “that persons rescued from drowning are held up by the feet to allow the water to run out.”

“Nonsense, Willis; a sure means of killing them outright.  It is not from water that any danger is to be apprehended, but from want of air, or, rather, the power of respiration.  What we have to do is to try and revive this power by such means as are within our reach.”