At that moment the ship Gold Finder, of Boston, Winthrop and Hunniwell, owners, Sears Kendrick, master, was sailing out over the waters of Massachusetts Bay. Astern, a diamond point against the darkening sky, Minot's Light shone. The vessel was heeling slightly in the crisp evening wind, her full, rounded sails rustling overhead, her cordage creaking, foam at her forefoot and her wake stretching backward toward the land she was leaving. Her skipper stood aft by the binnacle, feeling, with a joy quite indescribable, the lift of the deck beneath him and the rush of the breeze across his face.
From the open door of the galley lamplight streamed. Within Judah Cahoon sang as he worked over the stove. Judah had had a glorious afternoon. His chanteys had cast off the hawsers, had walked away with the ropes, had hoisted the sails, had bade the tug good-by. Now his voice was a thought frayed, but he sang on.
Elizabeth—now Elizabeth Berry no more forever—came up the companion ladder. She joined her husband by the after rail. The sea air was chill and she was wearing one of the captain's pea jackets, the collar turned up; a feathery strand of her brown hair blew out to leeward. She stood beside him. The man at the wheel was looking down into the binnacle and Sears took her hand.
"Well?" he said, after a moment.
She looked up at him. "Well?" she said.
Neither spoke immediately. Then Kendrick breathed a sigh, a sigh expressive of many things.
She understood. As always she knew what he was thinking.
"Yes," she said, "it is glorious. Glorious for me; but for you, Sears——"
"Yes. It's pretty fine. I really never expected to make sail out of Boston harbor again. And if anybody had told me that I was to—" with another look at the helmsman, and lowering his voice—"to leave port this way—with you——"
He laughed aloud.