The despatch was signed by an old friend of my husband's, Cyril
Chrysostom, who had once been Emissary in England, and to whom my husband
wrote his letters when he was in America. I hated to leave my mother so
soon, but it could not be helped, and we took the first electric express
for the Seventh Regionic, where we arrived in about an hour and forty
minutes, making the three hundred miles in that time easily. I couldn't
help regretting our comfortable van, but there was evidently haste in the
summons, and I confess that I was curious to know what the matter was,
though I had made a shrewd guess the first instant, and it turned out
that I was not mistaken.
The long and the short of it was that there was trouble with the people
who had come ashore in that yacht, and were destined never to go to sea
in her. She was hopelessly bedded in the sand, and the waves that were
breaking over her were burying her deeper and deeper. The owners were
living in their tent as we had left them, and her crew were camped in
smaller tents and any shelter they could get, along the beach.
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