shadows from the swinging searchlight of the Loring!"
The awe of the voice filled the room; the speaker was standing in the presence of a tremendous and sublime attempt of man to aid man and no one, drunk or sober, could confuse it. It struck the room silent as the wives of Belshazzar at the apparition of the hand which wrote upon the wall.
"The Blenmora seems to be swinging off a little. No! no! It was only the waves for a minute. She is standing in again and coming on slowly. She is very well handled. She rolls but advances steadily. The wind and the water both bear her toward the shore.
"She has to stand out! She is carried in too far! She will have to stand out and circle and try again, for the waves have driven her too far in. But she's not doing it. . . . She's not standing out! She is coming on steadily.
"Powell—I hear he's her master—Powell is keeping on. It was his intention to be borne in; he steered in. He is making his try not on the outside, where the others found it useless; he is bringing his ship on the inside between the wreck and the shoals!"
Ellen clung to the cabinet, straining. She saw not the room at all; she saw her father and his ship; she could feel the sway and swing of the ship. Forward, far forward on the narrow bridge, her father stood in the open with the water flying over him. The window to the wheelhouse was up; he stood in front of the wheel. His best wheelsman—Denny, beyond doubt—had his hands on the big wheel; his strong, steady, obedient hands. Denny looked out to her father.
"Right a little . . . Left a little! Steady!" her father
