'Very cut up, Duncan,' I said. 'She thinks you are dead. Your boat came
up with last night's tide.'

'Poor Polly, poor lass!' he said; 'I'll go to her.'

'Wait a little, Duncan,' I said; 'she is asleep now, and she will bear
the joy better when she wakes.'

'And my little lad?' he asked.

'Sleeping too, Duncan, so peacefully and quietly.'

'Well, it's hard not to go up, sir, but may be you're right.'

He waited very patiently for an hour, and when I crept up again at the
end of that time Polly and the child were both awake, and she was giving
him some milk. Little John was quite conscious, and looked more like
himself than he had done since his illness began. He had no sooner
finished his milk, however, than he began his old weary cry, 'Come,
daddy, come to little John.'

Polly burst into tears again when she heard him calling for the father
whom she believed to be dead; but I bent over the child and said, 'Yes,
little John, daddy will come to you.'

I believe Polly fancied that I thought the child was dying, and that I
meant his father's spirit was coming to fetch him, for she only cried
the more bitterly and said, 'Oh, little John, little John!'