"Not till I find her," answered Ben, resolutely, "you would get in, so make the best of it."
The girl grew white as death.
"Let me ashore, or it will be my death—I am sick with terror," she pleaded.
Ben did not appear to listen. He was looking wildly down the stream, right and left, with despair in his glances.
"Where is she? What can have become of her?" he cried out at last, sinking forward on his oars, and allowing the boat to struggle for herself against the wind.
"At home, no doubt," answered the girl, struck with a selfish thought, in which there was hope of safety.
"How! What?" exclaimed Ben fiercely, "at home!"
"No doubt she left her boat in some cove and went home along the shore," persisted the girl. "She would be sure to put in somewhere!"
Ben's face lighted up, and his eyes glowed with hope.
"It may be—of course it is. She went back long ago, no doubt on it," he exclaimed, joyfully. "Why Ben Benson, what a precious old fool you was not to think of that. Miss Agnes, I'll set you ashore now anywhere you'll pint out, if the boat lives through it."