Five o’clock in the afternoon, and a mild blue sea flashing under the ever-deepening orange of the falling sun.  Golden castles and gray castles and castles of shadowed-white billowed in the east; turrets rose and subsided and spires of cloud-cities formed and re-formed.  The yacht Laura, sleek and swan-white, her ensign and colors folding and unfolding, lifting and sinking, as the shore breeze stirred them, was making ready for sea; and many of the villagers had come down to the water front to see her off.  Very few sea-going vessels, outside of freighters, ever stopped in this harbor; and naturally the departures of the yacht were events equalled only by her arrivals.  The railroad station was close to the wharves, and the old sailors hated the sight of the bright rails; for the locomotive had robbed them of the excitement of the semi-weekly packets that used to coast up and down between New York and Philadelphia.

“Wonder what poor devil of a pirate is going to have his bones turned over this trip?” said the station-agent to Mr. Donovan, who, among others on the station platform, watched the drab anchor as it clanked jerkily upward to the bows, leaving a swivel and a boil on the waters which had released it so grudgingly.

“I guess it ain’t goin’ t’ be any ol’ pirate this time,” replied Mr. Donovan, with a pleasurable squeeze of the pocket-book over his heart.

“Well, I hope he finds what he’s going after,” generously.  “He is the mainstay of this old one-horse town.  Say, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?  Why, man, that anchor alone is worth more than we make in four months.  And think of the good things to eat and drink.  If I had a million, no pirates or butterflies for mine.  I’d hie me to Monte Carlo and bat the tiger all over the place.”

Mr. Donovan knew nothing definite about Monte Carlo, but he would have liked to back up against some of those New York contractors on their own grounds.

“Hi!  There she goes.  Good luck!” cried the station-agent, swinging his hat with gusto.

The yacht swam out gracefully.  There was a freshening blow from the southwest, but it would take the yacht half an hour to reach the deep-sea swells outside.  Her whistle blew cheerily and was answered by the single tug-boat moored to the railroad wharf.  And after that the villagers straggled back to their various daily concerns.  Even the landlord of Swan’s Hotel sighed as he balanced up his books.  Business would be slack for some days to come.

The voyagers were gathered about the stern-rail and a handkerchief or two fluttered in the wind.  For an hour they tarried there, keeping in view the green-wooded hills and the white cottages nestling at their base.  And turn by turn there were glimpses of the noble old house at the top of the hill.  And some looked upon it for the last time.

“I’ve had a jolly time up there,” said Fitzgerald.  The gulls swooped, as they crossed and recrossed the milky wake.  “Better time than I deserved.”