“I cal’late yo’re right, fust mate,” he said at last. “It makes the v’yage seem a tarnal lot safer if yo’re sure thar’s a skipper in command that’s not goin’ to let yo’ wreck yer craft on the rocks. Like be you’ll sail in purty rough waters sometimes, but I cal’late thar’s allays a beacon light shinin’ clear and steady through the storm o’ life, waitin’ to guide you to a safe harbor if yo’re watchin’ for it and willin’ to be guided.”
Then the grey eyes of Captain Ezra began to twinkle. “Rilly gal,” he said, “I reckon Parson Thompkins over to Tunkett’d think we was tryin’ to have a meetin’ without him presidin’ at it.”
The girl smiled across at the old man whom she loved. Then, rolling two socks together, she arose to prepare the noon meal.
The captain tilted back his chair. “The sermon now bein’ concluded,” he announced, “it’s time for the singin’.”
In a clear, sweet voice Muriel sang his favorite of the meeting-house hymns. Peace and joy were within that humble home while the tempest raged without. But that night, when she was snug in her bed in her room over the kitchen, Muriel lay awake for a long time listening to the roar of the storm and the crash of the surf and tried to picture what her friend Gene was doing at that hour.
But his world was not her world and the island girl could not even imagine the gayety into which Helen and Gladys and Faith had lured him that New Year’s Eve.
CHAPTER XX.
NEW YEAR’S EVE.
The street lights in New York were barely distinguishable because of the storm which raged for many miles north and south along the Atlantic coast.
There were few pedestrians out, although it was still early evening, and but a scattering of closed vehicles. In one of these sat Helen Beavers, Marianne Carnot and Gene. The French girl shivered and drew her costly grey furs closer about her.
“So this is your winter,” she said. “I would like it better in the south where it is always summer.” She shrugged her slim shoulders and tried to peer out of the small, rain-drenched window.