As I said, I know less about a boat than a boy of five.  I can never remember what the parts of it are called and it is a wonder to me how they can make it go more than one way.  So I cannot tell in any intelligent manner what happened.  But, as it seemed, suddenly, while I watched Sally standing steadily with both her little hands holding the rudder, there was a crack as if the earth had split, then, with a confused rushing and tearing, a mass of something fell with a long-drawn crash, and as I stared, paralyzed, I saw the mast strike against the girl as she stood, her hands still firmly on the rudder, and saw her go down without a sound.  There were two or three minutes of which I remember nothing but the roaring of water.  I think I must have been caught under the sail, for the next I knew I was struggling from beneath its stiff whiteness, and as I looked about, dazed, behold! we had passed the reefs and lay rocking quietly.  I saw that first, and then I saw Cary’s head as it bent over something he held in his arms—­and it was Sally!  I tried to call, I tried to reach them, but the breath must have been battered out of me, for I could not, and Cary did not notice me.  I think he forgot I was on earth.  As I gazed at them speechless, breathless, Sally’s eyes opened and smiled up at him, and she turned her face against his shoulder like a child.  Cary’s dark cheek went down against hers, and through the sudden quiet I heard him whisper.

“Sweetheart! sweetheart!” he said.

Both heads, close against each other, were still for a long moment, and then my gasping, rasping voice came back to me.

“Cary!” I cried, “for mercy’s sake, come and take me out of this jib!”

I have the most confused recollection of the rest of that afternoon.  Cary hammered and sawed and worked like a beaver with the help of two men who lived on Lundy, fishermen by the curious name of Heaven.  Sally and I helped, too, whenever we could, but all in a heavy silence.  Sally was wrapped in dignity as in a mantle, and her words were few and practical.  Cary, quite as practical, had no thought apparently for anything but his boat.  As for me, I was like a naughty old cat.  I fussed and complained till I must have been unendurable, for the emotions within me were all at cross-purposes.  I was frightened to death when I thought of General Meade; I was horrified at the picture stamped on my memory of his daughter, trusted to my care, smiling up with that unmistakable expression into the eyes of a common sailor.  Horrified!  My blood froze at the thought.  Yet—­it was unpardonable of me—­yet I felt a thrill as I saw again those two young heads together, and heard the whispered words that were not meant for me to hear.

Somehow or other, after much difficulty, and under much mental strain, we got home.  Sally hardly spoke as we toiled up the stony hill in the dark beneath a pouring rain, and I, too, felt my tongue tied in an embarrassed silence.  At some time, soon, we must talk, but we both felt strongly that it was well to wait till we could change our clothes.