Frank threw himself on his knees, and prayed them to take her to land.

They did not know his words, but they understood his prayer.

He kissed her lips--he chafed her hands--he wrung the water out of her hair--he held her feet against his warm breast.
"She is not dead," he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful, pitying looks.
The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with every appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood the nature of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts.
Frank walked, dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was borne by some men along the rocky sloping shore.
"She is not dead!" he said.

He stopped at the first house they came to.

It belonged to a kind-hearted woman.