"Well, it's mighty interesting, sir," said young Randy.
It was late when they reached the little town, but the west was blood-red above the ridge, with the moor all darkling purple.
Becky was not in the house. "I saw her go down to the beach," Jane told them.
"In what direction?" Randy asked; "I'll go after her."
"She sometimes sits back of the blue boat," said Jane, "when there's a wind. But if you don't find her, Mr. Paine, she'll be back in time for supper. I told her not to be late. I am having raised rolls and broiled fish, and Mr. and Miss Cope are coming."
"I'll find her," said Randy, and was off.
The moon was making a path of gold across the purple waters, and casting sharp shadows on the sand. The blue boat, high on the beach, had lost its color in the pale light. But there was no other boat, so Randy went towards it. And as he went, he gave the old Indian cry.
Becky, wrapped in her red cape, deep in thoughts
of the thing that had happened in the afternoon, heard the cry and doubted her ears.
It came again.