The first gray streaks of dawn were showing across the water when, with a little sigh of satisfaction, Don beached the disabled boat on their own sandy shore.
“With a line from shore,” said Don, “she’ll be safe here until noonday tide. Then I’ll get her drawn up high and dry.”
Pearl did not reply. Curled up in the prow of his motor boat, she had fallen fast asleep.
“Brave girl,” he whispered. “If we can make that boat tight and seaworthy she shall be all your own.”
* * * * * * * *
At eleven o’clock of a moonless, starlit night Pearl lay on the deck of the boat, her own first sailing boat. The work of repair was done. The Flyaway, as they had rechristened her, had gone on her maiden trip ’round the island and down the bay. She had proven herself a thing of unspeakable joy. Speed, quick to pick up, with a keel of lead that held her steady in a heavy blow, responsive to the lightest touch on rudder or sail, she was all that mind might ask or heart desire.
Already Pearl loved her as she might a flesh and blood companion. To lie on her deck here beneath the stars was like resting in the arms of her mother.
Three hours before, Ruth had rowed Pearl out in her new punt. Then, because there was work to do ashore, she had rowed back again.
One “Whoo-o! Whoo-o!” through cupped lips and she would come for her.
The night was still. Scarcely a vessel was stirring on the bay. Only once, a half hour or so before, she had caught the creak of oars. She had not so much as risen on elbow to see what boat it might be. Had she done so, she would have experienced a shock.