But where was Lily?  It scared him to find himself out of arm’s reach of her, forced back by the swell, and not to see her immediately when he was able to look.  He saw the launch—­which of course was entirely occupied in her rescue—­and saw two white buoys floating, and saw a line thrown, but nothing else, except the wild water that buffeted him, and the moonless night overhead.  And he remembered that the river channel—­indeed, Hobson’s Bay in any part—­was just as dangerous as mid-Atlantic to one who could not swim.  The thought clutched him like a hand at his throat.

“Got her?” he yelled, in a fury of terror.  “Got her?  See her?”

He strained to make himself heard by the men on the launch in a way to burst his heart.  They shouted something that he could not understand, and a line came whizzing past him.  He caught it as it dropped, and soon lessened the distance between them.  Then he perceived a long boat-hook stretching out into the darkness; it went up and down with the toss of the boat like the fishing-rod of an impatient school-boy, and a few yards beyond its reach, where it touched water, there was a dim smudge.  He knew it for the full cape of Lily’s macintosh, outspread upon the waves.  They alternately rumpled and smoothed it, flapping it into all shapes as they tossed and toyed with it; but, by the mercy of Heaven, it had held her up.  In the middle of the mass he could see her dear little head hanging forward and downward, just under the surface, out of which a larger or smaller speck of her white fascinator rose and gleamed as each roll swung her up into the light of the boat’s lamp turned upon the spot.  This told him that she was already helpless and unconscious, although ten seconds had not elapsed since she went over.  God send that she had not struck anything—­that her heart was not weak —­that she was not subject to any of the mysterious consequences of shock peculiar to the more than ordinarily complex women!  At any rate, she had not had time to drown.  He had seen a man recovered after being under for forty minutes, and in less than one they would be taking her full speed to Williamstown, signalling for the doctor as they went.  What would the fellows ashore make of the three whistles—­ three times there before they got across?  They would know the launch that blew them, and her present errand, and think, perhaps, that the crew were on the spree.  But no, they would have more sense than that; they would look at the wild night, and conclude that something had happened.  So would the doctor, who would hear the summons from his bed.  What would they all say to him, Guthrie Carey, with his good seaman’s record behind him, when he brought his wife home in such a state of dilapidation?  However, all’s well that ends well.  Let him only have her safely there, and he would not mind what anybody said; and he’d take precious good care not to run any risks with her again.