For a long while Skipper Ed stood there, his face drawn and haggard, his tall form bent, uncertain which way to turn or what to do.  Presently the fire faded from the sky, a breeze sent a ripple over the calm waters, and the big sun rose out of the sea, as though to ask him why he mourned.  And then he whispered, “Thy will be done.  If it is Thy will to take him from us, oh God, give us the strength and courage to accept our bereavement like men.”

Then it was that a new, strange peace came upon Skipper Ed, and he reentered the tent, to stoop again over Bobby’s couch, and as he did so his heart gave a bound of joy, and a lump came into his throat.  Bobby was breathing—­ever so softly—­but breathing.

With the passing minutes the steady, regular breathing became more apparent, the pulse asserted itself and grew stronger, and at the end of an hour, when Bobby at last opened his eyes Skipper Ed saw that reason had returned to them.

“I’ve—­been—­asleep—­dreaming—­queer—­dreams,” Bobby murmured faintly.

“Yes,” said Skipper Ed, “you’ve been asleep.”

“I—­feel—­very—­weak.”

“Yes, you’re very weak, for you’ve been very sick, lad,” and Skipper Ed, choking back his emotion, added cheerily:  “But there’s better luck for you now, lad.  Better luck.”

“May—­I—­have—­a—­drink?”

Skipper Ed poured some water into a tin cup, and supporting Bobby’s head, held the cup to his parched lips.

“Father—­and mother—­and Jimmy—­where—­are—­they?” Bobby feebly asked, for even in sickness his eye was quick to note their absence.

“They’re in my tent.  Nearly well, but not well enough to go out and get chilled, though they’re ready enough for it, and tired enough of staying in,” said Skipper Ed.

And then, wearied with the exertion, Bobby fell into deep and strength-restoring slumber, and Skipper Ed joined the others to cheer their hearts with the good news that Bobby’s illness had passed its climax, and to rejoice with them over a meager breakfast.

With the passing days Bobby grew rapidly stronger, and the others were able to be out and at their duties again.  And in due time Bobby, too, was out on the rocks enjoying the sunlight, with his old vigor daily asserting itself.

But hours of sunshine were few now, and more often than not the sky was leaden and somber, and the wind blew raw and cold, and already the clouds were spitting snow.  The fishing season had passed almost before they realized it.  The weeks of idleness had been costly ones, and when the time came for them to return to the cabins at the head of Abel’s Bay, and make ready for winter, they had garnered little of the harvest that had promised so well.

“Every season can’t be a good one for us,” remarked Skipper Ed as they struck their camp.  “Better luck next year; better luck.  And we should be mighty thankful we’re all alive and all well.  That’s good luck—­good luck, after all.”