In a little while the boat sped swiftly back, entered the lock, was lifted above the level of the storm-heaved ocean, and floated up the smooth canal calmly as if she had never known what trouble was. Away up to the pretty little Tudor-fashioned house in which she lay—one could almost fancy dreaming of storms to come—she went, as softly as if moved only by her “own sweet will,” in the calm consolation for her imprisonment of having tried her strength, and found therein good hope of success for the time when she should rush to the rescue of men from that to which, as a monster that begets monsters, she a watching Perseis, lay ready to offer battle. The poor little boat lying in her little house watching the ocean, was something signified in my eyes, and not less so after what came in the course of changing seasons and gathered storms.
All this time I had the keys in my hand, and now went back to the cottage to restore them to their place upon the wall. When I entered there was a young woman of a sweet interesting countenance talking to Mrs. Coombes. Now as it happened, I had never yet seen the daughter who lived with her, and thought this was she.
“I’ve found your daughter at last then?” I said, approaching them.
“Not yet, sir. She goes out to work, and her hands be pretty full at present. But this be almost my daughter, sir,” she added. “This is my next daughter, Mary Trehern, from the south. She’s got a place near by, to be near her mother that is to be, that’s me.”
Mary was hanging her head and blushing, as the old woman spoke.
“I understand,” I said. “And when are you going to get your new mother, Mary? Soon I hope.”
But she gave me no reply—only hung her head lower and blushed deeper.
Mrs. Coombes spoke for her.
“She’s shy, you see, sir. But if she was to speak her mind, she would ask you whether you wouldn’t marry her and Willie when he comes home from his next voyage.”
Mary’s hands were trembling now, and she turned half away.