When he awoke, it seemed to him that he had slept a scant half-hour, but his watch, which had come unscathed through the wettings of the night, showed that mid-afternoon had come.

The Wisp rose and fell very gently, and he thought with satisfaction that the sea must be entirely calm.

In the tiny bath-room of the forecastle, he revelled in a fresh-water bath. As he passed the looking-glass, he surveyed his face ruefully. In vain to lament his looming beard! A diligent search failed to reveal the razor he had hoped Danton’s boatman might have left.

It was only when fully dressed and engaged in smoothing down his hair as best he could that he became aware of a strange thing. There was no sound of rippling water under the Wisp’s bow.

And then he realized that the gentle motion of the sloop could not be caused by the rise and fall of the Atlantic swell—a swell majestic even at its calmest. The Wisp was not under way, but was at anchor in quiet waters!

He ran up the ladder, shouting: “Betty! Betty! What’s up?”

For his pains, he bumped his head on the half-closed hatch-cover, and for answer to his call heard—nothing. With another cry of “Betty!” he leaped upon deck.

There was no Betty. In a quiet inlet the Wisp was lying alongside a float connected by a plank to a pebbly beach. A tongue of land separated the harbor from the outer ocean. At a little distance on this sandy tract appeared a straggling group of houses, and anchored near the Wisp was a steam yacht, a pretty craft all white and gold.

All this he took in at a glance. A second disclosed a note pinned to the hatch-cover. He had it open in short order.

Boatswain Bob:

I couldn’t bear to wake you. A man who helped me make fast the Wisp says this is Currituck Sound, and the city (?) is Kitty Hawk. I’ve gone to get some things. Be sure your clothes are dry.

Kitty Hawk was on the chart—of so much he was certain—and he guessed that it contained a shop to supply its needs. He determined to purchase some sadly needed apparel for himself. In the shop, too, he would be certain to find Betty.

Still a little languid from his experiences of the night, he strolled leisurely along the sandy path. The day was clear and pleasantly warm. On his left the sun glinted upon the now kindly sea, and on his right the seagulls shrieked and fought above the waters of the sound. And presently he would see Betty.

He entered the village. The few people he met greeted him with a stare of frank curiosity, a stare generally followed by a friendly nod.

As he had anticipated, he soon came upon a building bearing a sign:

In front of it a wooden bench extending along the sidewalk, and three or four lank loungers thereupon, furnished irrefutable proof that the centre of Kitty Hawk’s business activities was at hand.

He remembered that he had not had a sight of Betty for five hours, and he pushed open the door of the “Bazaar” eager to see again the roguish mouth.

To his disappointment, she was not in the shop. However, the proprietor, a sandy-haired native inclining to corpulency, was prompt to supply his needs, nor was he backward in answering Fessenden’s question as to whether or not he had seen a young woman in a white sailor-suit.

“You-all are off the sloop ’at come in jest aftah the big yacht, I reckon. Yes, suh, yoah wife’s jest been heah.”

“My wife!”

He could have bitten his tongue off the next instant, for the man gave him a sharp, not to say suspicious, look.

“Yes. The young lady’s yoah wife, I reckon, suh. Her and you-all come togethah, didn’t yo’?”

“Yes—no—that is—” stammered Fessenden.

The shopkeeper stopped in the act of wrapping the assortment of haberdashery and razors Fessenden had picked out.

“It ain’t my way to quawl with good money,” he said, “but I’m a professin’ Baptist, and I’m obliged to say if yo’ two folks have come sailin’ round these parts ’ithout bein’ lawfully married—well”—he sighed regretfully—“then, suh, you-all can’t buy nothin’ in my stoah.”

But by this time Fessenden had recovered his wits. “No, no, man,” he said. “You don’t understand. She’s my daughter.”

“Oh, yoah daughtah? Then it’s all right, of co’se. Yes, suh, I can see now she does favah you-all a heap.” Although desirous of being convinced, his suspicions still lingered. “But you-all are a pretty young-lookin’ fathah, that’s a fact, suh.”

“Forty isn’t very young,” returned Fessenden mendaciously. “Which way did you say she went?”

“Why, she met some of yoah friends from the big yacht. They was in aftah theyah mail. They-all went out togethah. Yoah friends beat you-all consid’abul, didn’t they?”

His friends on the big yacht? What was the fellow talking about? Fessenden repressed a half-uttered question. No need to reawaken the man’s slumbering suspicions as to the character of himself and Betty! He settled his bill, and left the “Bazaar,” bundle in hand.

The shopkeeper’s talk had stirred him profoundly. Betty? Good Lord! For the first time he saw how others might look upon their enforced cruise together. She was almost a child, true; but was she near enough to childhood to be beyond the breath of scandal? This was a devilish mess!

He could not bear to think of himself in such a light. Far less could he patiently endure that through any fault of his—yet his fault was only his presence—her name should be blackened. What could he do? His feet lagged as he pondered, his head hanging.

He knew that Aunty Landis must have borne the news of their disaster to Sandywood. What would thoughtless Polly Cresap say when she learned that he and the farmer’s pretty daughter were not drowned after all? And impertinent Harry Cleborne? How would Madge Yarnell judge him? With brooding scorn, perhaps. As for Charlie Danton—Fessenden could picture all-too-clearly his bitter smile, the scar-line twitching the corner of his mouth. By God! he would suffer no sneer from Danton.

He wondered if any of the villagers had conveyed to Betty, even by a look, the suspicions that accursed shopkeeper had thrust upon him! He would find her at once. His presence might act as some sort of shield for her.

Conscious that some one blocked his way, he glanced up sharply. Charlie Danton stood before him—Danton, not sneering, not even smiling, but watching him very gravely.