“Well,” she laughed a low laugh, “looks as if we were going to get just that, whether we stay on the wreck or on land.”
Her thoughts were now on the mysterious black schooner that had visited the wreck the night before, and now on Greta’s phantom violin and the strange green light.
“May never happen again,” she murmured. “For all that, Greta will go back again and again, when it is quite dark. People are like that.”
She had turned about and was considering a return to her nest beneath the boat when, of a sudden, she dropped on her knees in the dark shadows of a wild cranberry bush.
“Something moving,” she told herself, “moving out there in the channel.”
At first she thought it a swimming moose, and laughed at her own sudden shock. Not for long, for as the thing came into clearer view she saw it was a power boat.
Moving along, it glided past her, dark, silent, mysterious in the night.
“The black schooner!” she whispered. “Wonder if it’s been to the wreck!” Her heart sank.
“But no,” came as an afterthought. “It has been too stormy. They are putting in here for the rest of the night.”
When the schooner had passed on quite out of sight, she made her way to the overturned boat, crept beneath it and had soon found herself a cozy spot among the blankets. She did not fall asleep at once. In time the silence lulled her to repose.