They were standing side by side on the floor of the cockpit. He waved his hand toward the bay. “All this beautiful scenery ought to be good for your malady—whatever that may be. Look at that sunset, Miss Yarnell. Why, hello! What’s that? Dead into the sun! Can’t you see it?”
She peered beneath the arch of her hand to mark the point. At that moment her elbows were gripped as if by a giant. She felt herself lifted, then thrust firmly, although gently, downward into the little cabin.
It was all done in an instant. Fessenden slammed the double-doors deftly upon his prisoner and dropped the catch into the slot.
“Good-night,” he called reassuringly. He leaped ashore and hurried inland.
V
Fessenden was well aware that the frail catch that held the doors of the Wisp’s cabin would not long hold prisoner so vigorous a young woman as Madge Yarnell. He guessed that in ten minutes she would be wending her disconsolate way toward Sandywood. But ten minutes would be enough—he gave himself no further concern about her.
He followed a cow-path beyond the pine grove, crossed a meadow or two, and struck the road not far above White Cottage.
A quail called in a field of early wheat, and was answered from a thicket of elderberry near at hand—a charmingly intimate colloquy. Fessenden was serenely conscious that it was good to be only twenty-eight, and on his way to dine, or sup, with an artless girl.
In ten minutes he was halting at the gate of White Cottage. Although it was only the dusk of the day, the window shades were down, and the lighted lamps within sent a glow across the wide porch. The door stood invitingly open.
As he clicked the gate behind him, he felt as if he were about to enter another world than the one he had left at Sandywood—the enchanted world of boyhood.