She stood up, lifted her arms in the air and shouted for help; again and again her shouts rang out, and she did not wait to hear an answer.  She thought that the masters of other boats had seen the storm coming and gone into shore.

She was out now full in the whistling wind and the boat was leaping.  Her throat was hoarse with calling, her eyes dazzled by straining.

When she turned in despair from scanning the shore she saw a sight that was very strange.  At the tiller where her uncle ought to have been, and just in the attitude in which he always stood, was a slight white figure.  A new sort of fear took possession of Helen; at first she could not speak or move, but kept her eyes wide open lest the ghostly thing should come near her unawares.

This illusion might be a forerunner of the death to which she was hastening, the Angel of Death himself steering her to destruction!

Then in a strange voice came the familiar shout, the warning to hold down her head.  The sail swung over in the customary way; every movement of the figure at the helm was so familiar and natural that comfort began to steal into her heart.  Plainly, whoever had taken command of the drifting craft knew his business; might it not be an angel of life, and not of death?

Now in plain sober reality, as her pulses ceased to dance so wildly, Helen could not believe that her companion was angel or spirit.  One does not believe in such companionship readily.

She scrambled to her knees and steadied herself by the seat.  ’Who are you?’ she asked.

The figure made a gesture that seemed like a signal of peace, but no answer was given.

The lights upon her own part of the shore were now not far distant.  She looked above and saw breaks in the darkness that had hidden the stars; the clouds were passing over.

The squall that was taking them upon their journey was still whistling and blowing, but she feared its force less as she realised that she was nearing home.

She desired greatly to work herself along the boat and touch the sailor curiously with her hand, but she was afraid to do it, and that for two reasons:  if he was a spirit she had reason for shrinking from such contact, and if he was a man—­well, in that case she also saw objections.

The man at the helm dropped the sail; for a minute or two he stood not far from Helen as he busied himself with it.

‘Who are you?’ she asked again, but she still had not courage to put out her hand and touch him.

There was a little wooden wharf upon the shore, and to this the sailor held the boat while Helen sprung out.  Her feet were no sooner safe upon it than the boat was allowed to move away.  She saw the black mast and the white figure recede together and disappear in the darkness.

Johns had to walk home by the shore, and in no small anxiety.  When he saw that his niece was safe he chuckled over her in burly fashion.