After Agatha and James had been brought ashore by the capable Mr. Hand, it had needed only time to bring Agatha back to consciousness.  Both she and James had practically fainted from exhaustion, and James had been nearly drowned, at the last minute.  Agatha had been left on the rocks to come to herself as she would, while Hand had rubbed and pummeled and shaken James until the blood flowed again.  It had flowed too freely, indeed, at some time during his ordeal; and tiny trickles of blood showed on his lips.  Agatha, dazed and aching, was trying to crawl up to the sand when Hand came back to her, running lightly over the slippery rocks.  They had come in on the flowing tide, which had aided them greatly; and now Hand helped her the short distance to the cove and mercifully let her lie, while he went back to his work for James.

Later he had got a little bucket, used for bailing out the rowboat, and dashed hurriedly into the thicket above after some tinkling cowbells.  Though she was too tired to question him, Agatha supposed he had tied one of the cows to a tree, since he returned three or four times to fill the pail.  What a wonderful life-giver the milk was!  She had drunk her fill and had tried to feed it to James, who at first tasted eagerly, but had, on the whole, taken very little.  He was only partly awake, but he shivered and weakly murmured that he was cold.  Agatha quickly grew stronger; and she and Hand set to work to prepare the fire and the bed.  Almost while they were at this labor, the sun had gone down.

Sitting by Jim’s couch, Agatha grew sleepy and cold, but there were no more coverings.  Hand’s coat was over Jim, and as Agatha herself felt the cold more keenly she tucked it closer about him.  Alone as she was now, in solitude with this man who had saved her from the waters, with darkness and the night again coming on, her spirit shrank; not so much from fear, as from that premonition of the future which now and then assails the human heart.

As she knelt by Jim’s side, covering his feet with the coat and heaping the fir boughs over him, she paused to look at his unconscious face.  She knew now that he did not belong to the crew of the Jeanne D’Arc; but of his outward circumstances she knew nothing more.  Thirty she guessed him to be, thereby coming within four years of the truth.  His short mustache concealed his mouth, and his eyes were closed.  It was almost like looking at the mask of a face.  The rough beard of a week’s growth made a deep shadow over the lower part of his face; and yet, behind the mask, she thought she could see some token of the real man, not without his attributes of divinity.  In the ordeal of the night before he had shown the highest order of patience, endurance and courage, together with a sweetness of temper that was itself lovable.  But beyond this, what sort of man was he?  Agatha could not tell.  She had seen many men of many types, and perhaps she recognized James as belonging to a type; but if so, it was the type that stands for the best of New England stock.  In the centuries back it may have brought forth fanatics and extremists; at times it may have built up its narrow walls of prejudice and pride; but at the core it was sound and manly, and responsive to the call of the spirit.