IN the clear morning light the mackerel fleet stood out against the horizon. Only one boat had not gone out—a dark one, green with crimson lines and gold along her prow. The girl on the beach looked at it curiously as she selected her fish from the dory, transferring them to the pan held high in the hollow of her arm. The silver scales gleamed in the sun—lavender, green and blue, and violet-black, as she lifted them, in running lines of light. The salt tang in the air and the little wind that rippled the water touched her face. She lifted it with a quick breath and looked out to the mackerel fleet upon the sea.... Uncle William had promised to take her—some day. She returned again to her fish, selecting them with quick, scrutinizing glance.... A shadow fell across the pan and she looked up. The young man had paused by the dory—and was regarding her with sombre eyes.

The little curls shook themselves and she stood up. “Aren’t you going out?”

The sombre eyes transferred themselves to the sky. “By and by—maybe—no hurry.” He smiled down at her, and the blood in her cheeks quickened.

“Everybody else has gone—” She waved an impatient hand at the distant fleet that sailed the horizon.

“I haven’t gone,” he said. He continued to study the sky with serene gaze.

“Why don’t you?” she asked severely.

He looked at her again, the little, dark smile touching his lip, “I’m waiting for luck,” he said.

“You won’t find it here—” Her eye swept the beach—with its tumbling fishhouses and the litter of dories and trawls.

“Maybe I shall,” he said. He looked down at the dory. “There are more fish right there than I’ve caught in three days,” he said quietly.

Her wide eyes regarded him—with a little laugh in them somewhere. “They call you ’King of the Fleet,’ don’t they?” she said demurely.

“That’s what they call me,” he replied. He moved a little away from her toward a dory at the water’s edge. “Want to go out?” he said carelessly.

Her eyes danced, and she looked down at the fish in her pan and up to the sky, and ran lightly to the fish-house and pushed the pan far inside and shut the door. “I ought to be getting dinner,” she said, coming back, with a quick smile.

“Never mind dinner.” He held out his hand and she scrambled into the dory, her eyes shining and the little curls bobbing about her face. She was like a child—made happy.

He pulled out with long strokes, looking contentedly at her as she sat huddled in the end of the boat. “I am taking you along for luck, you know.”

“I’ll never bring anybody luck,” she replied. Her eyes followed the great gulls overhead. “I’m like the birds, I guess,” she lifted her hand, “I just keep around where luck is.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he replied. He helped her into the boat and lifted anchor, running up the sails and casting off. The breeze freshened and caught the sail and filled it and the great boat crept from the harbor and rounded the point.... Out in the open, it was blowing stiff and the boat ran fast before it, little dashes of spray striking the bow and flying high. The girl’s laugh sounded in the splashing water, and the salt spray was on her arms and cheeks and hair.

The young man looked at her and smiled and turned the bow—ever so little—to take the wave and send it splashing about her, and her laugh came to him through the swash of the spray. It was a game—old as the world... pursuit and laughter and flight and soft, shining color and the big sun overhead, pulling the whole game steadily through space—holding the eggshell boats on the waves and these two, riding out to sea.

He turned the bow again and the splashing of the water ceased. She was looking at him with beseeching, shining eyes, and he bent a little forward, a tremulous smile of power on his lip. He was drinking life—and sky and sea were blotted out. The boat ran heedless on her way... and he talked foolish nothings that sounded important and strange in his unstopped ears.... The girl nodded shyly and spoke now and then—but only to the sky and sea....

The sky had darkened and the distant fleet bore toward home—casting curious glances toward the dark boat that moved with random hand.... George Manning could be trusted in any blow, but he was up to something queer off there—with a sky like that. They drew in sail and ran close, making for harbor....

The young man looked up and blinked a little and sprang to his feet. He had pushed the tiller as he sprang, and one leg held it firm while he reached to the guy rope and loosed it. “Get down,” he said harshly.

Her quick eyes questioned him and the little head lifted itself...With a half-muttered word he had seized her, crowding her to the bottom of the boat and ducking his head as the great boom swung past.

She gazed at him in swift anger, pulling herself free. But her wrath spoke only to the winds—He had run forward, dragging down the foresail, and was back to the tiller—his dark face set sternly, his eyes on the horizon.

When she tried to get up, he did not look at her—“Stay where you are,” he said roughly.

She hesitated a minute and sank back, biting her lip close. The line of gunwale that rose with heavy sweep to the sky and fell through space, cut her off. There was only the creaking of the boat, straining against the sea, and the figure of the man, above her, who had thrust her down—the great figure of the man and the blackened sky. By and by the rain fell and drenched her and the wind blew fiercely past the boat, driving them on. She could see the great hand on the tiller tighten itself to the wind, and force its will upon it, and the figure of the man grow tense. One leg thrust itself quickly and struck against her and pushed her hard—but she would not cry out—She hated him and his boat and the great sea pounding about them.... She wanted to get her pan of fish and go home to Uncle William and cook the dinner. The tears were on her face, mingling with the rain and the salt water that drenched it.

By and by the pounding waves grew less and the boat ceased to strain and creak and the great hand on the tiller relaxed its hold a little.

“You ’d better get up now,” he said—his voice sounded rough and indifferent and she lifted indignant eyes, but he did not see her. His gaze was still on the horizon, holding it with intent look.

She got up and gathered the little loose curls in her hands, wringing the water from them and shaking them apart.

Then she got to her knees and crawled to the seat, shivering a little. Off to the left, the woods of the Point shut off the main force of the wind, but the breeze was still fresh. He took off his coat and tossed it to her. “Put that on,” he said briefly.

It fell on the seat beside her, but she did not touch it or look at it. Her little face had a firm look.

His gaze left the horizon, for a flash, and came back. “You put on that coat,” he said.

“I don’t want it—” The words trailed away in a sob.

He did not look at her again. “You ’ll do as I tell you,” he said quietly—“or I shall make you.”

She reached out for the coat and put it on, drawing it miserably about her chin—“I think you are horrid.” She was wiping away the tears that ran quickly down.

“I don’t care what you think—You might have been killed,” he added after a pause.

“I’d rather—have been—killed.” The breath she drew was a quick sob.

He looked at her a minute. Then he looked away to the horizon. “There can’t be two captains on a boat,” he said dryly—“I didn’t mean to hurt you—I had to speak quick.”

She did not reply. She did not look at him again—not even when he helped her into the dory and rowed her ashore.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated, as he held up his hand to help her from the boat. She leaped to the beach. “I wish I’d never gone with you.” She stamped her little foot on the sand. “I’ll never go again—never, never—not as long as I live!” She turned her back on him and walked toward the fish-house.

He looked after her, a curious glint in his eye. Then he looked at his boat, riding at anchor, and the look changed subtly, “You needn’t worry,” he said softly—but not too softly to reach the pink ears—“You needn’t worry, Miss Celia—there will never be but one captain on a boat.”

She opened the door into the fish-house and took her pan and went up the rocky path without a look behind her.