They rowed us to the boat, and we were handed tenderly up the side.  There, the ship’s surgeon and everybody else on board did their best to restore us after our terrible experience.  The ship was the Don, of the Royal Mail Steamship Company’s West Indian line; and nothing could exceed the kindness with which we were treated by every soul on board, from the captain to the stewardess and the junior cabin-boy.  Sebastian’s great name carried weight even here.  As soon as it was generally understood on board that we had brought with us the famous physiologist and pathologist, the man whose name was famous throughout Europe, we might have asked for anything that the ship contained without fear of a refusal.  But, indeed, Hilda’s sweet face was enough in itself to win the interest and sympathy of all who saw it.

By eleven next morning we were off Plymouth Sound; and by midday we had landed at the Mill Bay Docks, and were on our way to a comfortable hotel in the neighbourhood.

Hilda was too good a nurse to bother Sebastian at once about his implied promise.  She had him put to bed, and kept him there carefully.

“What do you think of his condition?” she asked me, after the second day was over.  I could see by her own grave face that she had already formed her own conclusions.

“He cannot recover,” I answered.  “His constitution, shattered by the plague and by his incessant exertions, has received too severe a shock in this shipwreck.  He is doomed.”

“So I think.  The change is but temporary.  He will not last out three days more, I fancy.”

“He has rallied wonderfully to-day,” I said; “but ’tis a passing rally; a flicker—­no more.  If you wish to do anything, now is the moment.  If you delay, you will be too late.”

“I will go in and see him,” Hilda answered.  “I have said nothing more to him, but I think he is moved.  I think he means to keep his promise.  He has shown a strange tenderness to me these last few days.  I almost believe he is at last remorseful, and ready to undo the evil which he has done.”

She stole softly into the sick room.  I followed her on tip-toe, and stood near the door behind the screen which shut off the draught from the patient.  Sebastian stretched his arms out to her.  “Ah, Maisie, my child,” he cried, addressing her by the name she had borne in her childhood—­both were her own—­“don’t leave me any more!  Stay with me always, Maisie!  I can’t get on without you.”

“But you hated once to see me!”

“Because I have so wronged you.”

“And now?  Will you do nothing to repair the wrong?”

“My child, I can never undo that wrong.  It is irreparable, for the past can never be recalled; but I will try my best to minimise it.  Call Cumberledge in.  I am quite sensible now, quite conscious.  You will be my witness, Cumberledge, that my pulse is normal and that my brain is clear.  I will confess it all.  Maisie, your constancy and your firmness have conquered me.  And your devotion to your father.  If only I had had a daughter like you, my girl, one whom I could have loved and trusted, I might have been a better man.  I might even have done better work for science—­though on that side, at least, I have little with which to reproach myself.”