"Now, father," said Mary.
"I turn over—the command—to you, dear," said the Captain.
The next day at noon the gale had moderated to a fresh breeze, and though a heavy sea was running, the clouds had broken and the sun was peeping through. Mary went on deck with the sextant to get the ship's latitude. She poised herself on her graceful limbs, and handled the instrument like a veteran. Presently she got the sun's highest altitude.
"Make eight bells!" she cried.
"Ay, ay, sir—I mean, ma'am!" cried one of the men forward as he sprang to obey the order.
Mary went below and worked out her reckoning, while her father eyed her lovingly as she thumbed the navigation tables and the nautical almanac.
"It's three hundred and thirty miles west nor'west to Sandy Hook, father. The wind is sou' sou'west, and we can lay our course."
The Captain smiled faintly, for he was in much pain, and murmured, "Bless you!"
"ALL HANDS MAKE SAIL!"