Dawn was reddening the leaves of the oak outside the window when Fessenden awoke. From the great bay below the house came the ruffle of water—the wind was freshening. But it was not the mutter along the shore, nor the tang of the salt air, that had aroused him.

What could that idiot, Cleborne, have been driving at in his talk of Betty? No, Cleborne had declared he had never heard of her. Then whom could his dark hints be about? Was the Virginian a subtle joker, acting at the instigation of Polly or Mrs. Dick? It was not unlikely. And did Madge Yarnell’s peculiar conduct have any connection with the matter?

While he was still puzzling over Cleborne’s words, he fell asleep, and when he awoke again, at a more reasonable hour, his mind instantly became too full of plans for the day’s excursion with Betty to hold any conflicting thoughts.

At eight o’clock he ate his eggs, toast, and coffee, solving the problem of presenting a sufficient excuse for his proposed day’s absence by the simple process of not attempting it.

At the last moment, the freshening wind suggested the probable need of ample protection from the weather. Accordingly, he carried a double armful of steamer-rugs and rain-coats from the house to the Wisp.

In five minutes he was standing for Piney Cove. It took him half an hour or more to reach it, for the wind, blowing steadily from the northwest, held him back. He was rewarded by finding Betty and Aunty Landis awaiting him on the beach.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Landis. Hail, Dryad of the Pines!”

“Hail, Old Man of the Sea!”

Her eyes were as clear as twin pools; her lips were smiling, ready as always to laugh with him or at him, as opportunity might offer. She held her head with that defiant tilt of the chin that was to him one of her always-remembered characteristics. The sunlight flashed from the bay to the shining braid of her hair.

Her white sailor suit was set off by two daring bands of color—a scarlet handkerchief at her throat, and a scarlet sash about her waist. That most effective head-dress, a man-o’-war’s-man’s white hat, crowned her head. Fessenden’s eyes dwelt upon her with such frank delight that she blushed a little as Mrs. Landis followed her on board the Wisp.

The course was set southeast for Rincoteague Island. After a dubious phrase or two about the weather, Aunty Landis ensconced herself just within the opened doors of the little cabin. Here she produced an infinite number of gigantic stockings (male) from a work-bag, and proceeded to darn them.

“I hope both you and your aunt are good sailors,” said Fessenden. “It promises to be a bit rough before we get back.”

“Oh, yes. I hope it does blow. To be wet and cold, and to see the water boiling up ready to drown us—that would be living!”

“You strange child! You have a philosophy all your own. Did you know that?”

She nodded sagely. “Of course. I hate people who haven’t. That’s one reason I like you.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to hear you confess that there’s more reasons than one. I like you because—because you seem to me to be all golden. Perhaps the sun dazzles me.”

“Perhaps,” she smiled.

“You and the day are golden, but remember the song in Cymbeline:

“Golden lads and girls,” she repeated softly. “Oh, they can never come to dust while there are days like this to sail and sail!”

Her arms, extended yearningly, as if she would have plucked the secret of youth from the tossing bay, fell to her side. “I wish we could sail forever—never to go back to the sad land.”

He thrilled. “So do I. Let’s do it—you and I together.”

“And Aunty Landis?”

“I’m not so sure about Aunty Landis. The stockings might give out, you know.”

They had left Piney Cove not long after nine. With the strong northwester behind them, they made such progress that before two o’clock they were in sight of their destination.

Rincoteague Island lies on the very border-line between ocean and bay. On the eastern side, it is crowned by a straggling forest of pine and oak, and looks almost boldly toward the near waters of the Atlantic. A small hotel, and rows of bath-houses, mark it as a “resort”—a resort sustained by the excursion steamer that makes daily trips thereto from the towns of the mainland.

Although aware that the Wisp had been making extraordinary speed, it was not until Fessenden bore up direct for Rincoteague that he realized how the wind was freshening. He had put his helm down a little carelessly, and instantly a cupful of water took him in the back. He glanced astern, to find quite a sea racing after.

“Positively it’s roughing up,” he said. “Will you be afraid to face a head sea going home, Betty?”

“No, indeed; not with such a sailor as you, Bob White.”

“Good! The sloop could live through a hurricane, ‘so let the wild winds blow-ow-ow.’”

They stood in for Rincoteague pier. The excursion steamer had just disgorged its passengers there, and the sight of the horde convinced the party on the Wisp that the inevitable fish-and-oyster dinner at the hotel was not likely to prove a thing of beauty. Accordingly, Betty took the wheel and skilfully put the sloop alongside a smaller pier—rather rotted and insecure, to be sure—on the lee or ocean side of the island.

While Fessenden was making the Wisp fast, Mrs. Landis and Betty explored the larder, with highly satisfactory results. Potted slices of chicken, strawberry jam, boxed crackers, pickles, and aerated waters of several sorts, furnished “eatin’ stuff enough for anybody,” as Mrs. Landis avowed. She herself had thought to bring half a dozen wooden picnic plates and a complement of knives, forks, and spoons.

“Did you stock the Wisp for a polar expedition, Bob White?” asked Betty.

“Oh, all this stuff was left in her by the man I bought her from. I suppose it would have been more trouble to move the stores than they were worth. Have you everything you want? Then ‘all ashore that’s going ashore!’”

They ate their luncheon in a sheltered hollow at the lower end of the islet. A projecting clay bank, a huge stranded log, and an overhanging holly-tree made almost a cave of it. Aunty Landis was a highly satisfactory chaperon. After luncheon, when she was not darning, she was perusing a pamphlet of Sunday School lessons. And when this was finished, she brought a leather-bound memorandum-book from the bottomless work-bag, and entered upon an intricate calculation of household accounts.

Fessenden chatted with Betty. He had not yet begun to analyze the reasons for the pleasure he felt in her company, or hardly to understand that the farmer’s daughter who could hold a man of his experience by her side for the better part of three days must possess extraordinary charm.

“Now we are in the pirates’ den,” said Betty, “and that log is a treasure-chest full of—of what?”

“Of doubloons and pieces of eight. I’m the pirate chief, and you are my captured bride.”

“Oh, goodness!”

“Do you know, I made a remark something like that to Miss Yarnell the other day, and she took it quite seriously?”

“Was she afraid of the pirate chief?”

“She eyed me in that brooding, blazing way of hers—you remember how she looked when she tried to ride over us on the road the other day?”

“Remember!”

“Exactly. She eyed me in that fashion, then thanked me for the suggestion.”

“What did she mean?”

“I haven’t the least idea. Betty, what do you know about her?”

The girl put her hand suddenly on his arm. “What was that? A drop of water? I do believe it’s going to rain. And hear the surf! It’s fairly roaring. It must be blowing hard. I wonder if the yacht is all right.”

The thought brought them to their feet, and out of their sheltered hollow. They found a changed world.

While they ate, clouds had been gathering west and north, and now seemed to fill the whole space from bay to sky. A mile or two beyond the island, a white line advancing over the churning waters gave promise of a furious squall. Worst of all, the wind had risen until, even on their leeward side of the island, the swell was momentarily growing heavier.

“By George!” said Fessenden. “It looks as if we were in for it. Betty, we’d better have a look at the Wisp. That rotten old wharf!”

“I’ll race you to it!” she cried.

He overtook her in half a dozen strides, and throwing his arm about her shoulders, fairly swept her along with himself. She came no higher than his shoulders as she ran. Her eyes laughed up at him, and her shining hair brushed his lips. Aunty Landis was left hopelessly in the rear.

At the old pier, the waves, running far in beneath the flooring, were breaking against the ancient piles, while the structure complained in every joint. The Wisp, tied stem and stern to a string-piece, was plunging furiously.

“She seems to be all right,” said Fessenden, “but I think I’ll put an extra half-hitch in each of those lines.” He still steadied Betty against the wind as he spoke. “It wouldn’t be pleasant to be forced to go home in that excursion boat.”

Releasing his companion, reluctantly enough, he made his way out on the wharf. She promptly followed.

“Go back, child. The wind will blow you away.”

“I’m—all—right,” she gasped as he bent over the stern-line. “The rain will be here in a minute, and we’ll need the rain-coats.” She sprang aboard gaily.

“Come back!” he ordered. “I don’t believe it’s safe, Betty.”

“Only a minute,” she called. She waved a careless hand and dived into the cabin.

At that instant, a wave struck the Wisp on the inboard quarter and heaved her strongly outward. The stern-line held staunchly, but under the tremendous strain the string-piece gave way like the rotted punk it was, not a foot in front of Fessenden.

“Betty!” he roared. “Betty!”

His cry stirred the heart of the girl within the cabin, and brought her instantly onto the floor of the cockpit. Before she could realize the danger of the situation, the worst had occurred.

He was already kneeling at the forward line, heaving hand over hand to haul the bow of the Wisp alongside. The sloop was almost within reach when another wave struck her. The line was snatched from his fingers, and the yacht, flung to the full length of the rope, carried away the string-piece as before. The Wisp was adrift!

As the timber sank under his feet, Fessenden clutched at a wharf stanchion. By a miracle, he saved himself from going overboard.

As if recoiling from the freedom so suddenly won, the Wisp took a slight sheer toward the pier. The tide, running like a mill-race, swept her broadside past Fessenden.

“Betty!”

The girl, her body lithe and alert, had been steadying herself by the safety-rail of the cabin roof. Her face had whitened at the sight of Fessenden’s peril, but it was only now, in response to his hoarse shout, that a sound escaped her.

“Bob White!” she cried, her arms suddenly extended in piteous appeal. “Oh, Bob White!”

The watery space between the wharf and the sloop was hopelessly wide, but, uttering an inarticulate and despairing oath, he took two running steps and leaped.

He struck fair on his feet on the very rail of the Wisp, stood tottering, fought wildly for his balance—and then Betty’s firm little hand plucked him safely inboard.

“Thank you, Bob White,” she said.

There was no time to return even a smile in answer. He gripped the wheel and gave the sloop a sheer with the hope of beaching her outright. But wind and wave caught her.

“Close the hatch!” he roared.

As it happened, the forward hatch-cover was already in place. Betty snapped to the sliding storm-door of the cabin barely in time. A sea swept the Wisp from end to end, flattening Betty against the side of the cabin, and nearly swamping the yacht at a blow.

Fessenden was glad to escape by putting the craft dead before the wind. Bare-poled as she was, the Wisp fled southeastward like a frightened thing. The rain, the clouds, and the night overtook them together.

With a thrill, Fessenden felt a long, regular swell suddenly begin to lift the battling yacht. There was still enough of daylight to permit him a sight of Betty’s pale little face.

“Betty,” he said, “don’t be frightened, but I’m afraid we’re clear of the Capes. This feels like the Atlantic.”

She made a staggering rush and reached the lockers. There she sat down beside him as he struggled with the wheel. The spray flew clear over them again and again.

She laid her wet cheek an instant against his arm. “The ocean?” she said. “I hope you won’t be seasick, Bob White. I know I won’t.”

“You’re a trump,” he said.