Whatever she thought, she said at once; yet none ever called her a bold girl. Her modes of thought were as widely different from those of an English maiden, as a wild honeysuckle differs in form, habit, and scent, from a rose. She cared for no oneʼs opinion of her, any more than the wind cares how a tree swings; unless indeed it were one whom she loved, and then she would crawl to please him. For she loved with all her heart and soul, and hated with no less; and she always took care in either case to apprise the object of it. And yet, with all her depth of passion, Eoa was pure of heart and mind,—ay, as pure as our own Amy. She soon recovered from her bruises, being perfectly healthy, and elastic as india–rubber. Nevertheless, she would not have been saved from that terrible sea but for the generosity of poor Captain Roberts, and the gallantry of Bob Garnet. Now Bob was hurt rather seriously, and, being (as we are well aware) an uncommonly shy young fellow, he was greatly astonished, and shocked a little, when on the Friday morning a beautiful girl, very strangely dressed, ran to the side of his sofa, threw her arms round him, and kissed him till he was out of breath, and his face was wet with the dew of her tears. “Oh, please donʼt,” said Bob; “I am sure I donʼt deserve it.” “Yes, you do; and I will marry you when I am old enough. I donʼt know what you are like, and I donʼt care two straws, directly they told me what you had done. Only I must have papaʼs leave. Kiss me again, I like it. Now where is my darling papa?” “What, donʼt you know? Havenʼt they told you? Oh, poor thing!” At the tone of his voice she leaped back, like a bird at the gun–flash, and stood with her little hands clasped on her head, her eyes with their deep light quivering, and the whole of her form swinging to and fro, from the wild push of sudden terror. Then she spoke with a hollow depth, which frightened Bob more than the kissing. “They told me that he was well, gone to his brother somewhere, and I thought it wasnʼt like him to leave me so, and—tell me the truth, or Iʼll shake you to pieces.” “No, donʼt,” said Bob, as she leaped at him; “I have had shaking enough.” “Yes, you poor boy, and for my sake. I am a brute, I know. Tell me the truth, if you love me.” “Your dear father is dead. But they have found his body.” “Do you mean to say that God has been so wicked as to kill my father?” “God knows best,” said Bob; he could think of nothing else to say. “No, He doesnʼt. No, He doesnʼt. No, He never knows anything. He couldnʼt have known who he was, and how terribly I loved him, or He wouldnʼt have the heart to do it. Oh, you wicked boy; oh, you wicked boy! I will never forgive you for saving me. Hya, hya, hya!”