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There was no reproof or sarcasm in the tired voice. She had simply made an assertion.

“Why are you at sea, before the mast–a man of your talents?”

It was foolish, he knew; but the word “man” sent a thrill through him.

“To please you if I may; to cultivate what you did not find in me.”

“Yes, I knew; when you came on board I knew it. But you might have spoken to me.”

There was petulance in the tone now, and the soul of the man rejoiced. The woman in her was asserting itself.

“Miss Folsom,” he answered warmly, “I could not. You had made it impossible. It was your right, your duty, if you wished it. But you ignored my existence.”

“I was testing you. I am glad now, Mr. Owen.”

The petulance was gone, but there was something chilling in this answer.

“Can you see the ship?” he asked after a moment’s silence. “The moonlight is stronger.”

“We will not reach her. They have squared away. The mate had the deck, and father is asleep.”

“And left you in an open boat,” he answered angrily.

“He knew I was with you.”

What was irrelevant in this explanation of the mate’s conduct escaped him at the time. The full moon had emerged from behind the racing clouds, and it brightened her face, fringed by the tangled hair and yellow sou’wester, to an unearthly beauty that he had never seen before. He wondered at it, and for a moment a grisly thought crossed his mind that this was not life, but death; that he had died in the fall, and in some manner the girl had followed.

She was standing erect, her lithe figure swaying to the boat’s motion, and pointing to leeward, while the moonlit face was now sweetened by the smile of a happy child. He stood up, and looked where she pointed, but saw nothing, and seated himself to look at her.

“See!” she exclaimed gleefully. “They have hauled out the spanker and are sheeting home the royal. I will never be married! I will never be married! He knew I was with you.”

Again he stood up and searched the sea to leeward. There was nothing in sight.

“Unhinged,” he thought, “by this night’s trouble. Freda,” he said gently, “please sit down. You may fall overboard.”

“I am not insane,” she said, as though reading his thought; and, smiling radiantly in his face, she obeyed him.

“Do you know where we are?” he asked tentatively. “Are we in the track of ships?”

“No,” she answered, while her face took on the dreamy look again. “We are out of all the tracks. We will not be picked up. We are due west from Ilio Island. I saw it at sundown broad on the starboard bow. The wind is due south. If you will pull in the trough of the sea we can reach it before daylight. I am tired–so tired–and sleepy. Will you watch out?”

“Why, certainly. Lie down in the stern-sheets and sleep if you can.”

She curled up in her yellow oil-coat and slumbered through the night, while he pulled easily on the oars–not that he had full faith in her navigation, but to keep himself warm. The sea became smoother, and as the moon rose higher, it attained a brightness almost equal to that of the sun, casting over the clear sky a deep-blue tint that shaded indefinitely into the darkness extending from itself to the horizon. Late in the night he remembered the danger of sleeping in strong moonlight, and arising softly to cover her face with his damp handkerchief, he found her looking at him.

“We are almost there, John. Wake me when we arrive,” she said, and closed her eyes.

He covered her face, and, marveling at her words, looked ahead. He was within a half-mile of a sandy beach which bordered a wooded island. The sea was now like glass in its level smoothness, and the air was warm and fragrant with the smell of flowers and foliage. He shipped the oars, and pulled to the beach. As the boat grounded she arose, and he helped her ashore.