“A nice night,” said my mother after a time. “Don’t you think it’s nice, Mrs. Henderson?”

“A little chilly,” replied the woman. “I’m worried about you, Mrs. Marburg. I don’t think you’re dressed warm enough. As soon as he comes, we must hustle back to the house.”

“Oh, yes,” cried my mother. “Oh, of course we must! Did Sonia tell you what that good man said when he brought the brandy? He said, ‘I think at times like these, you ought to think of the living.’ ”

It was some minutes before we heard Mr. Henderson call out to us. “Ready!” he cried. “Can you see, Sonie? Come straight to the end of the wharf.”

I stepped forward, the two women following me until we reached the wharf, which seemed no more than a long, insubstantial shadow. Mrs. Henderson squeezed my hand, and my mother, who had already withdrawn, called, “Dear Sonia! Dear little girl!”

“Mamma!” I cried in an abrupt, inexplicable desperation. “Mamma! Mamma! Where are you?”

“Hush!” said Mrs. Henderson.

“Are you lost?” came Mr. Henderson’s imperative voice.

“She’s coming, Ross!” returned his wife.

I lingered for a moment at Mrs. Henderson’s side. We were both motionless. We heard my mother’s feet lightly running over the wet sand, and in a little while, an eerie voice singing in the distance. Then I ran to the end of the wharf, my head down, scuffing my rubber soles to keep from falling on the slippery boards. I went down the ramp to the float where the boat was moored. As Mr. Henderson stretched out his hand to help me, a phrase of my mother’s song came swelling towards us on a little wind.

“Mr. Henderson, I’m sorry . . .” I began.

But his calloused hand was full of sympathy and he muttered, “Rich or poor, a person must stand by another person.”

The dories softly plopping in the water made a sound sadder even than the horns. “We’ll go round the Point and out a bit,” said Mr. Henderson. “I like a fog myself.”

The whirr of the motor prohibited talk, and the foghorns were all but obliterated save when they were very near. To our right, until we rounded the Point, were the lights of Boston, blurred into one long line which shifted with the movement of the boat. Miss Pride and her niece would be just sitting down to dinner. I could hear Miss Pride say crisply, “I had another of those beastly begging letters today. Do they think we’re made of money?”