As he prepared to lie down, he looked at the girl.

"See that star up there?" he said. "Well, just keep the vessel going the way she is, with that star over your shoulder. Don't let it get anywhere else. If it does, wake me quickly. If you become afraid, or see anything, let me know at once."

"Yes," said the girl, "I understand. Good-night, Daniel."

"Good-night, Virginia."

In a few minutes Dan was fast asleep. Through the night sailed the girl, alone, sore afraid, but comforted with the a.s.surance that a touch of her hand would bring to her the powerful man who slept at her feet.

Straight she stood at the wheel, and tall, like some figure of a G.o.ddess of antiquity. The moon rose, and its light glorified her. It fell upon the shattered deck, defining every dreary detail. The waves rose and fell with the lilt of music. The tinkling breeze was cool and fresh and invigorating. Fear vanished from her. She felt herself a part of the elements, a part of the night, the lone representative of life and consciousness, and G.o.d amid the waste of primeval desolation.

So she sailed, exalted, enn.o.bled, until long after midnight. When her thoughts turned to the man sleeping at her feet, she leaned down, gazing long and earnestly upon his face. Then, as he stirred, she let her hand rest on his forehead a moment.

"It is time to awaken, Daniel," she said.

He was upon his feet in an instant. There was a strange expression upon his face.

"I was far away from here," he said. "I was dreaming, the bulliest sort of a dream."

"Dreaming? And what about, pray?"

"You."

"You were! Tell me the dream."

"They say dreams that are told never come true," replied Dan, slowly.

Their eyes met. Both were smiling. Then her eyes fell; but she still smiled.

"Then," she said, "I guess you had better not tell me--unless--"

"Unless?" asked Dan, as she paused.

Slowly she arranged the blankets, while Dan waited for the completion of the sentence. Then she lay down.

"Good-night," she said.

When she awoke, the sun was rising high. The breeze had died away.

The wheel was deserted. She looked down the stretch of deck, but Dan was nowhere to be seen. With a fluttering heart she arose and shook out her skirts, hardly daring to peer into the cabin for fear her dreadful intimations might prove true.

He was not in the cabin. She called his name in a low voice, but only the hollow echo resounded from the corridor. In agonized suspense now she ran out on the deck.

"Dan!" she called with all the power of her lungs, not expecting that he would hear her now. "Dan Merrithew, have you left me?"

There came an answering hail, and looking toward the bow she saw Dan clambering out of the forward hatch. His shoes and trousers were dripping wet. As he ran to her she waited, weeping. He caught her hands and held them.

"Oh, Dan, Dan!" she cried, "you frightened me so! I thought you had gone. I thought you were dead. You are not going to leave me again, are you?"

"Never," said Dan.

Then both started as though the underlying significance of the question and answer had suddenly dawned upon them. Gently she withdrew her hands, which Dan did not seek to retain. In conversational tone, he said:

"I am awfully sorry, Virginia. While you were sleeping, the wind fell, an hour or two after dawn, and the blue of the water struck me. I found the Captain's thermometer and lowered it overboard. My best hopes were realized. We are in the Gulf Stream, Virginia, and moving northward at about four miles an hour. We are all right now if all goes well."

"But why were you hiding?" asked the girl.

"I wasn't. I wanted to see if the water had hurt the logwood, so as to impair its value, and to learn the condition of the hull. You know the cargo is all that is keeping us afloat. Everything is pretty soggy down there, but we'll hold together, I guess; and I don't believe the logwood will suffer a bit. Of course the mahogany is all right. We're lucky. One schooner in a million has mahogany these days."

She had been gazing at him almost vacantly while he was talking. Now she smiled beautifully.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you again," she said. "It seems almost as if you had been away a thousand years."

"That," said Dan, "almost pays me for frightening you. Are you ready for breakfast? I knocked it together a while ago."

"For which you shall be punished--when we get ash.o.r.e."

CHAPTER XIV

DAN AND VIRGINIA

After breakfast they drew chairs to the wheel and sat out on deck. It was a wonderful May morning. Thin clouds hung in the blue, like little yachts; and the cool, balmy air and the sparkling sunlight brought the clear, steady call of work to be done, of life to be lived beautifully and n.o.bly, and strong things to overcome, or to accomplish--the call of youth.

And they heard the call, these two, and responded to it with the joyousness of youth, wherein a phrase is a lifetime, and a word, volumes. They talked of themselves, regarding each other wonderingly as hidden depths of character were revealed, or a word, or a sentence, or a sympathetic silence threw light upon a new element of personality.

He spoke of the _Fledgling_. He used to see her through a golden haze.

She was his first command. Yet each day came the old question, What next? And the answer. Why, everything. A future--bigger things and better, broader work, not on the sea at the last. No; landward, somewhere, anywhere. But onward, onward!

"Something is linked with every one's destiny, Virginia. Fate fires no salutes; every shot is solid and aimed at something. And the thing that is. .h.i.t you have to step over and go on; if you stop to look at it and think over it and try to look for something else for Fate to knock down for you, something easier to step over and get away from, you find, perhaps, years later, that just there you missed your chance."

She regarded him with kindling eyes.

"And so that has been your philosophy."

"For want of a better, yes."

"I think it is a splendid one, and it has stood its highest test--it has served you well. Do you know, the first time I had any idea you were interested in the higher things was that day we were in your cabin on the _Tampico_. Do you remember my looking at your books and exclaiming over the selection? I don't know, but somehow the Bible impressed me most."

"I had a pretty good English foundation at Exeter," replied Dan, "and I kept it up after I left there. That Bible--I think I did grow and broaden after leaving school, but I never grew beyond Psalms and St.

Paul; which proves that a little knowledge is not dangerous."

The girl smiled.

"Most men would be ashamed to say that," she said. "Most of the men I have known," she added.

"I never would have said it to any one but you." He said this with quiet conviction, and the girl inclined her head slightly.