“She's doin' well, and we ought to be thankful,” said the man; and his tone, even more than his words, served to reprove the other's impatience. “I'll try and set the mainsail on her with the remains of the sprit.” Harcourt watched him, as he labored away to repair the damaged rigging; but though he looked at him, his thoughts were far away with poor Glencore upon his sick bed, in sorrow and in suffering, and perhaps soon to hear that he was childless. From these he went on to other thoughts. What could have occurred to have driven the boy to such an act of desperation? Harcourt invented a hundred imaginary causes, to reject them as rapidly again. The affection the boy bore to his father seemed the strongest principle of his nature. There appeared to be no event possible in which that feeling would not sway and control him. As he thus ruminated, he was aroused by the sudden cry of the boatman. “There's a boat, sir, dismasted, ahead of us, and drifting out to say.” “I see her!--I see her!” cried Harcourt; “out with the oars, and let's pull for her.” Heavily as the sea was rolling, they now began to pull through the immense waves, Harcourt turning his head at every instant to watch the boat, which now was scarcely half a mile ahead of them. “She's empty!--there's no one in her!” said Peter, mournfully, as, steadying himself by the mast, he cast a look seaward. “Row on,--let us get beside her,” said Harcourt. “She's the yawl!--I know her now,” cried the man. “And empty?” “Washed out of her with a say, belike,” said Peter, resuming his oar, and tugging with all his strength. A quarter of an hour's hard rowing brought them close to the dismasted boat, which, drifting broadside on the sea, seemed at every instant ready to capsize. “There's something in the bottom,--in the stern-sheets!” screamed Peter. “It's himself! O blessed Virgin, it's himself!” And, with a bound, he sprang from his own boat into the other. [Illustration: 126] The next instant he had lifted the helpless body of the boy from the bottom of the boat, and, with a shout of joy, screamed out,-- “He's alive!--he's well!--it's only fatigue!” Harcourt pressed his hands to his face, and sank upon his knees in prayer. CHAPTER XIII. A “VOW” ACCOMPLISHED Just as Upton had seated himself at that fragal meal of weak tea and dry toast he called his breakfast, Harcourt suddenly entered the room, splashed and road-stained from head to foot, and in his whole demeanor indicating the work of a fatiguing journey. “Why, I thought to have had my breakfast with you,” cried he, impatiently, “and this is like the diet of a convalescent from fever. Where is the salmon--where the grouse pie--where are the cutlets--and the chocolate--and the poached eggs--and the hot rolls, and the cherry bounce?”