“It _pays_ to keep Hope at the prow, Uncle Darcy.”
“Aye, lass,” he answered tremulously, “it does.”
“And we’re coming into port with all flags flying!”
“_That_ we are!”
She stood in silent gladness after that, the rest of the way, her curls flying back in the wind made by the swift motion of the boat, the white spray dashing up till she could taste the salt of it on her lips; a little figure of Hope herself, but of Hope riding triumphantly into the port of its fulfillment. It was for them all--those words of the old psalm on which the rainbow had rested, and which the angel voice had sung--“_Into their desired haven_.”
THE END