"And all my fault that he came on this trip! My fault, my fault!" he
repeated over and over again.
At length he became conscious of the selfishness of thus giving way to
his feelings while Sabella was still in such urgent need of his aid.
"I must get her to the raft at once!" he exclaimed, starting up and
looking about him. But there was no raft, nor was there any steamboat.
There was nothing but the skiff with themselves in it, a small circle
of brown water, and the fog. He had no idea of direction, not even
whether his skiff was heading up-stream or down, or drifting broadside
to the current. If the fog would only lift! It had been so kind to
him, but now was so dreadful.
The boy took off his coat, folded it, and put it under Sabella's head.
Then he sat beside her and rubbed her cold hands. He knew of nothing
else that he could do for her, and so he waited--waited for the fog to
lift or for help to come.
At length he began to hear sounds from every direction, the sound of
whistles, bells, and hundreds of other noises. He must have reached
St. Louis, and it would never do to drift past it. Besides, the danger
of being run down was now greater than ever. So the boy took to his
oars, and began to pull in the direction from which the loudest sound
of whistles appeared to come.
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