"Child, you're shuddering, you're as cold as ice." He put his hand upon her chilly bosom, and hugged her more fiercely to his own. With a sudden movement of despair and anger at the little he could do, he slipped his arms from his jacket, and stripping open his shirt pulled her to him, re-fastening his jacket around them both, tying it tightly about their bodies by the empty sleeves. She felt his lips on her hair and heard him whisper, "You're not frightened of me, are you, child? You never will be, will you?" She shook her head and whispered, "I never have been." "Sleep, if you can, dear." "I'll try." So closely was she held by his coat and his arms, so near she lay to his beloved heart, that she knew no longer what part of that union was herself; they were one body, and one spirit. Her shivering grew less, and with her lips pressed to his neck she fell asleep. It was noon. The hemisphere of the sky was an unbroken blue washed with a silver glare. She could not look up. The sea was no longer wild, but it was not smooth; it was a dancing sea, and every small wave rippled with crested rainbows. A flight of gulls wheeled and screamed over their heads; their movements were so swift that the mid-air seemed to be filled with visible lines described by their flight, silver lines that gleamed and melted on transparent space like curved lightnings. "Oh, look! oh, look!" cried Helen. He smiled, but he was not watching the gulls. "Yes, you've never seen that, have you, child?" His eyes searched the distance. "But you aren't looking. What are you looking at?" "Nothing. I can't see what I'm looking for. But the gulls might mean land, or icebergs, or a ship." "I don't want land or a ship, or even icebergs," said Helen suddenly. He looked at her with the fleeting look that had been her first impression of him. "Why not? Why don't you?" "I'm so happy where I am." "That's all very well," said her boy, with his eyes on the distance. For awhile she lay enjoying the warmth of the sun, watching the gulls sliding down the unseen slopes of the air. Presently high up she saw one hover and pause, settling on nothingness by the swift, almost imperceptible beat of its wings. And suddenly it dropped like a stone upon a wave, and darted up again so quickly that she could not follow what had happened. "What is it doing?" she asked. "Fishing," said the boy. "It wanted its dinner." "So do I," said Helen. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a packet wrapped in oilskin. There was biscuit in it. He gave some to her, bit by bit; though it was soft and dull, she was glad of it. But soon she drew away from the hand that fed her. "What's the matter?" he asked. "You must have some too." "That's all right. I'm not greedy like you birds." "I'm not a bird. And I'm not greedy. Being hungry's not being greedy. I'd be greedy if I ate while you're hungry." "I'm not hungry." "Then neither am I."