"You'll be as right as a trivet--I don't know what a trivet is, by the
way--before very long," he assured her. "It's wonderful how you pull
round, especially in such air as this. Here, I'll rig up a little nest
against the warm side. That's what you want--warmth."
"You're very good to me," she faltered. "But you're good to everyone,
and we all know how busy you are."
"That's all right," he said, cheerfully. "Nothing like plenty of work."
While he was making the nest, the tall, supple figure of Isabel Devigne
came on deck; she too was weak, but she walked firmly and held her head
erect. At sight of Derrick and his employment she also coloured, a rich,
passionate red, and she drew a long breath, her white, even teeth
clenched tightly. Informed by the direction of Alice's eyes, Derrick
turned and saw the other girl.
"Plenty of room, Miss Devigne," he said, cheerfully. "You two snuggle up
together; keep each other warm. Halloa! here we are. Let 'em all come,"
he added, as a cry of welcome and joy rose from the children, who
appeared now and rushed at him as if for refuge and comfort.
The two girls watched him hungrily as he caught up the smallest of the
group, gave her a playful shake, and chucked her softly into the nest.
They shrilled their thanks and their love, and clamoured to him to
remain; but Derrick wiped them off gently, as one wipes off a bunch of
clinging bees, and promising to look them up as soon as he could,
returned to the horses, which needed him quite as badly as did these
humans.
"He's almost too good to be a man," murmured Alice, involuntarily, as
her gaze followed him wistfully.
Isabel's dark eyes flashed, and her full and sensuous lips curved
contemptuously.
"He's a man, every inch of him," she said. "He's the first man I've ever
met in this god-forsaken world. You--like him, because he's been playing
the nurse to all of us women; you're the sort that always wants some man
to be fussing about you. I'm different. I like to see him when he's
fighting it out with, and mastering, one of the horses, or holding his
own with one of the men-swine who give him trouble sometimes."
"You and I are different," sighed Alice.
"I should hope so," retorted Isabel, scornfully; but the next moment,
with a kind of rough tenderness, she drew the shawl closer round Alice's
shoulders. "Yes, we're different; perhaps that's why I like you. And I
do like you still, though sometimes, when you look up at him with the
eyes of a sick calf, and make excuse to touch him----"