Hilliard threw something over me,--the rain was coming down in
torrents,--and then he pulled with all his might for the shore.
Presently my senses began to come back; I knew what a terrible strain it
must be to row in such a storm,--though fortunately the tide was with
us,--and he had come out in it for me. I felt I ought to take my share
of the work. "I--can--row. Let--me--take--an--oar," I said slowly,
sitting up.
"Not an oar,--I need both," Hilliard answered decidedly; then he added
persuasively, "Be a good girl, Betty, and just keep in the bottom of
the boat."
I saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,--his coat was over
me,--and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head.
His face was very pale and set,--stern looking,--and the veins in his
forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at
the oars.
"I'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where I
can run her aground."
Again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last
we shot into the cove, and I heard the keel grating on the rocky beach.
In an instant Hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the
sand, out of reach of the highest wave.
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