She felt dizzy, and most uncertain on her feet, but not six feet
distant was a heap of low camp-chairs, huddled together out of the way
of the still dripping deck planks. If she could reach one and get to
leeward of that capstan--but what should she hold on to meanwhile?
And, even as she asked herself the question, the goodly steamer,
happening to dip her lowest courtesy to a rude in-coming wave of giant
proportions, shipped its combing crest, that poured through the
latticed guard-rail and swirled across the deck, with a force, that
sent poor Hope a drenched, doubled-up little heap of helplessness,
pounding right into the midst of the chair-stack.
Before she had time to cry out, however, she was caught up, and her
father's voice, hoarse and frightened, asked quickly,
"Are you hurt, love?--Are you hurt?"
As she looked up into his anxious face, pale beneath the sun-bronze,
Hope fully realized how deeply her father loved her, and answered in a
much subdued voice,
"No, papa--not much. I think I've barked my knees and bumped my head,
but I guess that's all--except the wetting!" shivering a little.
"Yes, you mustn't take cold. I'll help you right back, and send Martha
to you. You'd better crawl into your little nest again as soon as
you're thoroughly dry, and don't venture outside again until I come and
get you, my storm-bird."
"Father," she said, as he was about leaving her at the cabin door, "do
you _never_ sleep? I left you up at midnight, and I find you up at
dawn.
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