The boat still drifted. The mouth of the Whitsea River was narrowing in upon them. The sea wall stood up blackly against the pellucid sky. The sun went down behind the purple bank of mist. The colours faded. The sweet grey calm of summer twilight spread its mantle over the water. From somewhere on the shore a sandpiper called to his mate.
Meriel awoke to reality with a start.
"We shall never make our moorings to-night, Guy," she cried. "It must be eight o'clock, and we are quite four miles from home."
"I should be quite content, dear," he answered, "to drift along forever."
"You would tell another tale when you came to examine our store of provisions," she answered merrily.
Guy looked at his watch. "The tide will run for another half hour," he said. "No, unless a breeze should spring up the Witch will never make Whitsea to-night."
"We shall have to leave her," answered Meriel promptly.
"Why not wait for the next tide?" urged Guy.
"No, Auntie will be so anxious," the girl replied. "If we drop anchor here and stow away comfortably we can easily row home in the dingey."
Guy stood up and glanced around the horizon. The air was perfectly still. There was not a movement in the sails.