I
stopped t' see that all was safe, an' there on the floor, actin' like
all possessed, was Billy! He was fur goin' with the men, but he couldn't
stand on his legs. It was somethin' fierce the way he took on. I sort o'
hauled him up an' swore I'd get him down t' the shore somehow, when this
gentleman," Ai waved one of Billy's boots, which he had just managed to
get off, toward Thornly, "come in an' he kind o' took command, as you
might say, an' ordered us on t' this here port."

Janet was pressing her face against the weary one upon the pillow, and
murmuring over and over in a gentle lullaby, "My Cap'n, my Cap'n!"
Thornly came over to the cot and raised Billy to feed him the drink.
Billy looked up and smiled feebly.

"If I ain't needed here," Ai said, "I'll take a haul o' coffee an' then
fetch some down t' the men." Janet started.

"Oh! I forgot," she cried; "what about the wreck?"

"The tide's turnin'," Ai replied from the depths of a bowl of coffee.
"Like as not the ship will lift by mornin'! More frightened than hurt
anyway, I guess. They've signalled us t' stand by till daybreak, but I'm
thinkin' they'll hist before then!"

When Ai had gone Thornly put the cup down, and placed Billy back on the
pillows. The heavy eyes opened and fell upon the two faces near. Then a
puzzled expression settled in the kindly gaze.

"Ye've got yer chart t' sail by, my gal," he whispered, going back in
memory to that night when he had told Janet of her mother. "I ain't
goin' t' worry any more!"

The words trailed off into unconsciousness, and Cap'n Billy swung at
anchor between this port and that beyond.

CHAPTER XIV

A southwest wind howled around the little hut upon the Hills. The season
was in one of its humorous moods, for the day was almost summer-like in
spite of the wind's noisy insistence. Between the tops of the highest
dunes the white crested heads of the waves could be seen at times; and
the deep, solemn tones announced that there was "a heavy sea on."

The nearer water of the bay, in imitation of its mighty neighbor, echoed
in mildest tones its restlessness, and tossed its feathery foam high
upon the pebbly beach.

Thornly had found the first May pinks by the roadside that morning, and
Mark Tapkins had mentioned, in passing, that Cap'n Billy was soon coming
off. By these signs, and the singing in his heart, he knew the spring
had come.

He was sitting before the easel upon which rested "The Pimpernel,"