He crept back into the semi-darkness and listened with his ear close to the water till, after a time, as he began to conclude that this last boat must have gone back, and he wondered again and again whether the drifting body had been found, he heard voices once more, every word coming now with marvellous clearness. "No, sir, only a bit of a crevice." "Does it go far in?" "Far in, Mr Leslie, sir? Oh, no. Should waste time by going up there. You can see right up to the mouth, and there's nothing." "But the current sets in there." "Yes, sir, and comes out round that big rock yonder. Deal more likely place for him to ha' been washed up farther on." "Leslie, and in search of me," said Harry to himself as the boat passed by. "Yes; they do believe I'm dead." That day dragged wearily on with the occupant of the cave, tossed by indecision from side to side till the shadow began to deepen, when, unable to bear his sufferings longer, he crept out of the opening with the full intent of climbing the cliff, and throwing himself on the mercy of one of the cottagers, if he could find no other means of getting food. The tide was low, and he was standing hesitating as to which way to go, when he turned cold with horror, for all at once he became aware of the fact that not fifty yards away there was a figure stooping down with a hand resting on the rock, peering into an opening as if in search of him. His first instinct was to dart back into the cavern, but in the dread that the slightest movement or sound would attract attention, he remained fixed to the spot, while the figure waded knee-deep to another place, and seemed to be searching there, for an arm was plunged deeply into the water, a rope raised, and after a good deal of hauling, a dripping basket was drawn out and a door opened at the side, and flapping its tail loudly, a good-sized lobster was brought out and deposited in the basket the figure bore upon her back. "Mother Perrow!" exclaimed Harry beneath his breath, and then an excited mental debate took place. Dare he trust her, or would she betray him? Fear was mastering famine, when Poll Perrow, after rebaiting her lobster pot, was about to throw it back into deep water, but dropped it with a splash, and stood staring hard at the shivering man. "Master Harry!" she exclaimed, and, basket on back, she came through water and over rock toward him with wonderful agility for a woman of her age. "Why, my dear lad," she cried, in a voice full of sympathy, "is it you?" "Yes, Poll," he said tremulously, "it is I." "And here have I been trying to find you among the rocks while I looked at my crab pots. For I said to myself, `If Master Harry's washed up anywhere along the coast, there's nobody more like to find him than me.' And you're not dead after all." "No, Poll Perrow," he said agitatedly, "I'm not dead." "Come on back home," she cried. "I am glad I found you. Master Vine and Miss Louise, oh, they will be glad!"