Now and then the sloop yawed alarmingly as they ran before the wind.

“This won’t do,” said Fessenden. “I must get some sail on to steady her. Do you think you’re strong enough to hold the wheel, Betty?”

She gripped the spokes, her hands beneath his. The quiet strength of his clasp comforted her mind no less than her body,—in a moment she nodded confidently.

Leaving the helm in her charge, Fessenden literally crawled forward. Ordinarily, the jib was handled by means of the sheet led aft through a couple of small blocks to the helmsman, so that one man could both sail and steer without moving from his place. Now, however, the fierceness of the wind impelled Fessenden to extra precautions in his endeavor to make sail.

He took care to wrap the sheet twice about a cleat before hoisting away, but as soon as the jib rose above the low gunwale, the wind tore it from the lower bolt-ropes, and it blew straight out, held only by the bowsprit halliard.

He would have attempted to recover the ironed-out sail by reaching for it with a boat-hook—a foolhardy undertaking at any time—but Betty, divining his intention as he showed black against the whitening crest of the waves, screamed so shrilly that he desisted. There was nothing left for him to do but to make his way back to the wheel.

“Child,” he said, “you’re wet through, and I’m afraid we’ve a wetter time before us. There’s no use in your staying out here to get soaked every other minute. Go in the cabin, out of harm’s way.”

“But you’re being soaked, too.”

“I’m a man.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No, you won’t. I can’t think of letting you do that. Watch your chance and get inside there. Slide the hatch-cover to, sharp, before any water gets in.”

Rather to his surprise, she yielded, and dexterously slipped into the cabin. Although her presence had been more comfort to him than he realized until she was gone, he bent his whole attention to keeping the Wisp from broaching to, which would have meant the end.

The worst of the rain-squall had passed, but the night was as black as a wolf’s mouth. The wind blowing half a gale, piled up the waves behind the Wisp to a height that might well have proved a menace to a craft three times her size. Thanks to her tight-closed hatches and her sea-worthiness, she shed water like a petrel, yet the towering swell of the Atlantic might crush her at any moment. If they fell an instant into the trough of the sea, they were lost.

Fessenden contemplated the possibility of constructing a sea-anchor. But whatever might have been possible for an experienced seaman, his nautical knowledge was too limited for him to undertake the work.

And even if he could make and successfully launch a sea-anchor, the most dangerous part of the task would follow—that long and terrible moment it would take for the sloop to swing round, head on to the sea. The waves might roll her over and over before he could even clasp Betty in his arms. The risk was too great. He breathed an inward prayer, and held the Wisp resolutely before the wind.

He had three dangers to face—the ever-present terror of being overtaken by the following sea, the likelihood of being dashed against a hidden coast in the black night, and the chance of being run down by some merchantman or man-o’-war, threshing through the dark.

Suddenly the cabin hatch snapped open and shut again.

“Betty!”

“I’m going to stay with you.”

“Go back.”

“No. See, I’m wrapped up splendidly. And here are oilskins for you.”

Indeed, a quaint figure she made of it, in a rain-coat miles too big for her slender body, and a sou’wester hat, somewhere discovered, fairly engulfing her little head.

For the first time that night, he laughed boyishly. “You dear child! You mustn’t stay, though.”

“Put these on, Bob White. Perhaps you’ll get dry underneath.”

Still keeping a controlling hand on the wheel, he managed with Betty’s help to encase himself in the fisherman’s oilskins she had found.

“Now, then,” he said, “you must go in.”

For answer, she seated herself beside him. “No, I want to stay here. I’m afraid to be alone in there—with you out here, and the dreadful black water all about.”

“I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“I’m going to stay.”

“You can’t, Betty. I order you to go in.”

“I won’t go.”

“Betty,” he cried in despair, “it will be better for me if you’re out of the way. Don’t you see?”

“No-o, I don’t.”

“You’ll be safer.”

“You know I won’t. You’re only trying to make me comfortable, while you are left out here in the cold and wet. Let me stay. If—if we must be drowned, I want to be near you, Bob White—please.”

There was no resisting this appeal. A thrill of pity went through him as he looked down at the slight form crouching under the all-too-low gunwale. She should not die if he could prevent it.

“Can you see the compass?” he asked. “How are we heading?”

She rubbed a little of the brine from the binnacle-glass. “Yes; now I see it. North is where that mark is, isn’t it? Oh, I know—southwest by south.”

“What? Look again.”

“That’s right. Sou’west by sou’.”

“Then the wind is shifting to the northeast. Betty, we’re headed for Cape Hatteras.”

The dread name apparently produced no alarm in the girl’s mind. “I’ve always wanted to be in a storm off Hatteras.”

“Well, you’re likely to have your wish before morning, if this gale keeps up.”

“If we reach Cape Hatteras in the dark like this—abruptly—what will happen?”

“I fancy we’ll hurt Cape Hatteras’s feelings.”

“Oh!”

After a silence, he felt her hand touch his arm as if she needed comfort.

“Poor little girl,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

“I know. I’m—all right,”

“There’s plenty of ocean about Hatteras,” he went on, rather to reassure her than because of his belief in what he said. “We may not get near the land. Even if we do, Pamlico Sound is just behind it—there’s only a sort of stretched-out island between the sound and the ocean. We might slip right through an inlet into the Sunny South.”

“It isn’t—very likely, is it?”

“It’s quite possible,” he maintained.

Presently, to his delight as well as to his surprise, he heard a little crowing laugh.

“What is it?”

“Aunty Landis! Goodness! I never thought of her until this minute. What will she do?”

“Go home on the excursion steamer, of course. But she’ll have to stay all night at the hotel. The steamer isn’t likely to risk crossing the bay during this blow.”

“You don’t suppose she’ll think we’re drowned? She may be in a terrible fright over us.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

Hour after hour wore on, and still the storm drove them southward. All night Fessenden, in a way that was afterward a marvel to himself, fought a ceaseless battle with the sea and wind. His hands were numb and his feet were like ice, but he stood staunchly to his task.

In spite of his urgings, renewed from time to time, Betty crouched beside him all night long. She too was cold, colder even than he, for she could not warm herself by action. Still she held her post. Perhaps she knew that her presence there was an inspiration to him as real as the sight of the flag to the fighting soldier.

Toward morning the clouds broke overhead. The stars began to shine through. Then, to the relief of the Wisp’s crew, the wind began to fall, and about dawn the waves had ceased to be formidable.

“Betty,” said Fessenden joyfully, “I really believe we’ve pulled through.”

“Hurrah!”

While she held the wheel, he managed to lay hold of the now flapping jib, and to set it after a fashion. This greatly steadied the sloop.

Then, at last, Betty consented to listen to his persuasions to turn in in the cabin.

“We’re pretty well out of danger now,” he declared, “Go in and rest, Betty. Take off those dripping clothes—”

“Only steaming, please.”

“Amendment accepted! But take them off and go to bed. I’m afraid you’ll be sick—and then what should I do?”

“Will you promise to wake me in an hour? You are the tired one. I’ve loafed all night.”

“I’ll wake you when I think it’s time to turn the wheel over to you. I promise you that.”

“I’ll go to bed, then.”

“Good! And, Betty, light that oil range and dry your clothes by it. Now, off with you, quick!”

It was full daylight, although the sun was not yet visible. For the first time in many hours their faces were plain to each other’s view. Both were pale with the long night’s exposure, but both were smiling.

Betty lingered in the act of closing the cabin-hatch upon herself. “You’ll be sure to wake me soon?”

“Yes.”

“What a night we’ve had!”

“Rather lively, wasn’t it? I assure, I’m glad to see you this morning.”

“I’m glad to see you. Oh, very glad!”

She closed the hatch gently behind her. No sound of a sliding bolt followed—she trusted him too innocently to lock the door against him.

For a while he heard her moving about, then all was quiet. He pictured her tired little body cuddled under the blankets while a grateful warmth crept over her. He smiled to the gray sea at the thought.

The wind and sea diminished rapidly. The sun rose out of the waste to the east, and the last of the foul weather fled before it. In an hour or so he ventured to hoist the mainsail. The sloop bore it well, and under it made swift progress toward the southwest. Sooner or later, he knew he must sight land in that direction.

Indeed, it was not yet ten o’clock when a remote gray line took shape off the starboard bow. He could not repress a shout of joy:

“Land! Land ho! Land!”

In a moment the cabin-hatch was opened wide enough to let a sleepy voice be heard. “Did you call me, Bob White?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you, child, but land’s in sight.”

“Land? Oh, that’s good! But I must have been sleeping for hours. You oughtn’t to have let me be so selfish.”

“Not at all. You can do your trick at the wheel whenever you’re ready, and I’ll turn in a while.”

“I’ll be out in ten minutes—no, twenty, for I’m going to get breakfast for you.”

“Breakfast!”

“Certainly. Do you think you can drink a cup of hot coffee?”

“Jupiter Pluvius! Hot coffee? Alas, I must be mad.”

“You’ll see,” she laughed. “In twenty minutes.”

Indeed, it was not long before she again appeared. “I’ve just come to say good-morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“De-li-ciously. I can only stay a minute—breakfast is cooking. You poor man, you’re still in your wet clothes, while I’m as dry as toast.”

Her garments, down to her very shoes, spread since dawn on the racks above the range, were dry and even smoothed. Only the scarlet sash and handkerchief were missing—the salt water had ruined them.

The braid of shining hair no longer hung down her back, but now encircled her head in heavy coils, a new and charming arrangement. He was vaguely conscious that it made her look strangely mature, and endowed her with a mysterious dignity.

“I haven’t been really wet for some time,” he assured her. “If you’ll take charge, I’ll have a look at the chart in the locker here. Perhaps we can tell where we are.”

“I’m not at all sure,” he announced after a brief study, “but I think we aren’t so far down as Hatteras—the wind fell away very rapidly toward the last. That may be the North Carolina coast, though—Currituck Island, perhaps. You know the sounds run Currituck, Albemarle, and Pamlico.”

“I know the coffee must be boiled and the ham broiled by this time. Take the wheel and let the cook attend to her duties.”

She flatly refused to touch any breakfast until he had eaten his fill and waited upon him in spite of his protests. Never had broiled ham, hard crackers, and marmalade tasted so good. And the strong, hot coffee warmed his very soul.

“You wonder!” he said, as he presented the tin cup for more. “Where did you get this gorgeous dinner-set?”

“I found it among the pots and pans in the galley. There’s quite an assortment your predecessor left.”

“Oh, that coffee! You miracle of a child!”

Her eyes sparkled as she watched him swallow a second cup. “What do you think of the cook?”

“I think the cook’s an angel.”

“Have you finished? Then to bed with you.”

“I’m off. Just hold the Wisp to the course she’s on. Call me when you can make out the land distinctly.”

He patted her benevolently upon the shoulder and started forward. “Well, here goes the weary sea-boy to his slumbers.”

She waved her hand as he descended the forecastle ladder.

In a little while he slid back the overhead hatch a foot or so and looked out. He was invisible to the fair helmswoman, but the coils of her hair shone just above the top of the cabin roof.

“I’m almost asleep,” he called. “Good-night, Betty dear.”

He held his breath. Would the intimacy wrought of the night’s peril and companionship avail? An answer, low and very gentle, went with him to his dreams.

“Good-night, Bob White—dear.”