“Suppose Andrea stays in town over night at her married daughter’s,—she does that sometimes,—then no one would come here until morning.”
“But her son August will come, you know,” I said.
“Well, I’m afraid, I am,” said Louisa.
“Oh, no, Louisa, dear. We are perfectly safe here, you know.”
“But there are so many sounds, and it’s so lonely and strange, it’s uncomfortable to be here; and if there are spirits anywhere, they will be here, you may depend upon it.”
Louisa whispered the last, although we stood absolutely alone on the Seven Stars, alone on the wide sea.
The skiff, bobbing and rocking, had now drifted quite a distance beyond Bird Island.
“It’s drifting out to sea!” shouted Louisa, despairingly. “Oh, deliver me from Grandfather! He’ll be so angry about his boat.”
O dear! O dear! How worrisome it was! And now the sun had gone and it would soon begin to grow dark. We had not had time to look about on the yacht yet, and it seemed as if we must prepare ourselves to stay there for a while. But the doors were locked and nothing did we find on the deck but a man’s old weather-worn hat.
What should we do? Stay on the open deck all night? There was no use in shouting for help out in this solitude.