“I declare, Marguerite, this island lies along due east of the mouth of the Potomac. Why, I can see the pines on Point Lookout and Point Rogers with the naked eye—and, with the aid of the glass, I do think I can see so far up the river as your place, Plover’s Point.”
“That is fancy, my dear; Plover’s Point is fifteen miles up the river.”
As the air was calm and the water smooth, with the promise of continuing so for the night at least, and as there was a full moon, Mrs. Houston felt safe in remaining to tea.
When she was ready to go home, and before she left the chamber, where she had put on her outer garments, she tried to persuade Marguerite not only to come very soon to Buzzard’s Bluff, but to fix the day when she might expect her.
“You will excuse me for some time yet, dearest Nellie. The truth is that I arrived at home the day of the last storm; in crossing in a boat from the schooner to the island, the wind was high and the water very rough, and I received a terrible fright—was within an inch of being lost, in fact; I have not entered a boat since—have not the least idea that I shall be able to do so for a long time,” said Mrs. Helmstedt, evasively.
“Why, not even when the sea is as calm as it is this beautiful night?”
“I fear not—the sea is proverbially treacherous.”
“Why, you do not mean to say that, rather than venture on the water, you will confine yourself to this island all your life?”
“I know not, indeed; life is uncertain—mine may be very short.”
“Why, Marguerite, how unlike yourself you are at this moment. What! Marguerite—my heroic Marguerite—she who ‘held the blast in scorn,’ growing nervous, fearing storms, doubting still water even, thinking of death? Whew! there must be some noteworthy reason for this metamorphosis! Say, is it so, my dearest Mrs. Helmstedt?” inquired Nellie, with a smile, half archness, half love.