They did not again visit the box in Treasure Cave. As he had planned, Gene had written a long letter to his sister telling her that he was getting strong and well, describing his interesting life on Windy Island, but Muriel, for some reason, he did not mention.
He ended his epistle by telling his sister about the small steamer trunk which had been cast ashore by a storm and then asked if Helen had heard, lately, from Marianne Carnot. A week passed and no reply was received. Gene, growing every day more rugged and ruddy, had actually forgotten that his sister had said if he did not return to New York to spend the holidays with her, that she would visit him.
It was a glorious day, about a week before Christmas, and the air was invigoratingly cold. “I’ll race yo’ around the island on the beach,” Muriel called, as she and Gene started out for their customary morning hike when their tasks were finished.
“You won’t beat,” the boy, whose laughing face was beginning to bronze from the sun and wind, shouted that his voice might be heard above the booming of the surf on the rocks near.
“Won’t I?” Muriel turned merrily to defy him.
“I snum you won’t!” Gene liked to borrow words from the old sea captain’s lingo now and then. “Nor will I, for that matter,” the lad confessed. “Shags will. Now, one, two, three, go!”
Away they ran. Muriel was quickly in the lead, Shags bounding at her heels, and the lad a close third. When they reached the north end of the island they found that the tide was high, which meant that they had to await the receding of the waves before they could round the point on the sand. Luck was with Muriel, for when she reached the rocks there was a clear wet space ahead of her and around she darted, but Gene was held up while another breaker crashed in, and so, as they neared their final goal, the little wharf on the town side of the island, the girl was in the lead.
Her red-brown hair was blown, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and as she whirled to exult over the lad, he thought he had never seen a more beautiful picture. He caught both of her hands, but his bantering remark died as he stared at the dock back of Muriel, hardly able to believe his eyes.
“My sister Helen has come,” he said in a low voice, “and someone is with her.” Instantly he recognized the someone. It was Marianne Carnot.
“I’ll go back to the light,” Muriel told him. “Yo’re sister’ll want to see yo’ alone, an’ she won’t care for the like o’ me.”