“Keep perfectly still!” Judge Hilliard commanded.  “I’ll have you out in a short time.”  He waded into the marsh, his high boots protecting him from the black ooze.  When he was about five yards from Phil he flung her the rope.  “Now work your way along toward us,” he directed.  Phyllis obeyed his command and in an incredibly short time was safe on dry land, her shoes heavy with mud.

“It is bad enough to be lost,” declared Phil as she thanked the stranger, “but it is worse to be not only lost, but stuck in the mud as well.”

“You were in a most unpleasant, though I can hardly say a dangerous plight,” returned the stranger.  “Can I be of further service to you?”

“Would you—­could you tell us where we can get a drink of water?” asked Madge.  “We are so tired and thirsty.”

“My name is Arthur Hilliard,” returned the man.  “If you will come to my house, my mother will be glad to offer you refreshment.”

“Thank you,” bowed Madge sedately.  “We will go with you.”

Mrs. Hilliard, a stout, comfortable looking old lady, received the wanderers with true Southern hospitality.  Without waiting to hear their story, she insisted that they change their bedraggled clothing for two comfortable looking dressing gowns which she laid out for them, and by the time they had washed their faces and hands and dressed their hair they found a hot supper ready for them in the dining room.

“We are so sorry to have troubled you,” declared Madge apologetically, as Mr. Hilliard entered the dining room when they were finishing their meal.  “Now we must tell you who we are and how we came to be floundering in the marsh so late in the evening.”

Beginning with their visit to the island that morning Madge related all that had transpired during that long day of adventures.  Judge Hilliard shook his head disapprovingly as the tale continued, but listened with grave interest to the part of the story relating to Mollie, the sailor’s daughter.

“This girl of whom you speak is like the girl in the fairy story, who has a cruel step-mother and an ogre of a father,” he commented when the story had ended.

“Of course she is,” answered Madge; “only our girl is not in a fairy story, she is real.  I can’t believe that that dreadful Mike Muldoon is her father, and I know there must be some way to take her from him and make her happy.”

“We are going to save her yet,” declared Phyllis stoutly.  “I don’t see just how we are to manage it, but to-morrow we are going to try again.  How far are we from Fisherman’s Island?”

“About thirty miles,” Judge Hilliard replied.  “I have telephoned to the nearest town to let your chaperon know you are safe.  The message will be taken over to your houseboat tonight, and I will take you home in the morning.  My mother insists that you remain here tonight.  She will join us in the library in a few minutes.”