Tommy liked that, and all the morning Judy talked, although she was so tired, that her head felt light, and her eyes blurred, but Tommy was happy and she tried to forget about herself.

She made him suck both of the lemons.

“I don’t want any,” she said, although her throat was so dry that she could hardly speak.  “I don’t want any.”

“Whew, but they are sour,” said Tommy, and made a wry face, but he did not insist upon her having one.

That was the worst of it, the thirst, for there was no fresh water.

“Let’s explore,” said Tommy, as the afternoon waned and no relief came.  “Maybe we will find a house back there somewhere.”

But Judy shook her head.  “No,” she said, “we are on the end of the peninsula, between the bay and the ocean.  It is just salt marshes from one end to the other, and no one lives on them.  The best thing we can do is to hail a boat.”

“But there ain’t any boats.”

“There will be,” said Judy, stoutly.  “There are lots of little schooners that take fruit and vegetables to the markets.  Not many of them come this way, but some of them do, and if we wait they will rescue us.”

After that they saw several sails, and waved Tommy’s coat frantically, but no one responded.  As the twilight darkened into the night, a steamer went by, her lights shining like jewels against the purple background—­red and green and yellow.

“If we only had a lantern,” groaned Judy, as Tommy shouted himself hoarse, and the steamer kept on her majestic way, leaving them hopelessly behind.

“Maybe some one will see us in the morning.”  Judy was trying to encourage Tommy, who had dropped down on the sand with his back to her, but not before she had seen his working face, and his knuckles rubbing his red eyes.

“I’m going to sleep,” he muttered, still with his face away from her, and with that he curled himself up against the big mound, as he had done the night before, and forgot his troubles.

Judy lay on the sand watching the waves roll in, and thinking long thoughts.  She thought of her father, living, perhaps, on some such lonely beach as this, but farther away from the haunts of men—­alone, looking at the same stars, searching a vaster expanse for the ship that never came.  She thought, too, of her mother, the gentle mother, whose guarding presence she seemed to feel in the wonderful stillness.  She thought of their plans for her; that she might grow to gracious womanhood, following in the footsteps of the women of her race, and here she was—­a runaway, reckless little girl, away from home at midnight, chaperoned only by the wind and the waves, and with no roof above her but the sky!

Under the solemn canopy of the night she made many resolves, cried a little, and lay there with her eyes shut, but not asleep, feeling very wicked, and very forlorn, and very, very hopeless.

When she opened her eyes again, the night was glorious.  The moon had risen, and its light made a silver pathway across the darkness of the waters, and sailing straight towards her, its sails set to the fair winds of heaven, came a little boat, dark against the shining background.