“Governor Landholm? —­ is he along?  Well —­ glad to see him.  Run from the yallow fever, eh?”

“Is mother up, father?”

“Up? —­ no! —­ What on arth!”

“Tell her to get up, and make some beds for folks that couldn’t sleep aboard sloop; and have been navigatin’ all night.”

“Go, and I’ll look after the sloop till morning, Captain,” said Winthrop sitting up on his sail.

“Won’t you come ashore and be comfortable?” said father and son at once.

“I am comfortable.”

“But you’ll be better off there, Governor.”

“Don’t think I could, Hild’.  I’m bound to stay by the ship.”

“Won’t you come, Miss?” said the skipper addressing Elizabeth.  “You’ll be better ashore.”

“Oh yes —­ come along —­ all of you,” said the old sloop-master on the land.

“I’m in charge of the passengers, Captain,” said Winthrop; “and I don’t think it is safe for any of them to go off before morning.”

The request was urged to Elizabeth.  But Winthrop quietly negatived it every time it was made; and the sloop’s masters at last withdrew.  Elizabeth had not spoken at all.

“How do you do?” said Winthrop gravely, when the Cowslips, father and son, had turned their backs upon the vessel.

“Thank you —­” said Elizabeth, —­ and stopped there.

“You are worn out.”

“No,” —­ Elizabeth answered under her breath; and then gathering it, went on, —­ “I am afraid you are.”

“I am perfectly well,” he said.  “But you ought to rest.”

“I will, —­ by and by,” said Elizabeth desperately.  “I will stay here till the daylight comes.  It will not be long, will it?”

He made no answer.  The sloop’s deck was in parts blockaded with a load of shingles.  Winthrop went to these, and taking down bundle after bundle, disposed them so as to make a resting-place of greater capabilities than the armless wooden chair in which Elizabeth had been sitting all night.  Over this, seat, back, sides and all, he spread the sail on which he had been lying.

“Is there nothing in the shape of a pillow or cushion that you could get out of the cabin now?” said he.

“But you have given me your sail,” said Elizabeth.

“I’m master of the sloop now.  Can’t you get a pillow?”

Since so much had been done for her, Elizabeth consented to do this for herself.  She fetched a pillow from the cabin; and Winthrop himself bestowed it in the proper position; and with a choking feeling of gratitude and pleasure that did not permit her to utter one word, Elizabeth placed herself in the box seat made for her, took off her bonnet and laid her head down.  She knew that Winthrop laid her light shawl over her head; but she did not stir.  Her thanks reached only her pillow, in the shape of two or three hot tears; then she slept.

CHAPTER X.