considering the story Mr. Harland had told about his college friend at Oxford.  I tried to picture his face and figure till presently it seemed as if I saw him,—­indeed I could have sworn that a man’s shadowy form stood immediately in front of me, bending upon me a searching glance from eyes that were strangely familiar.  Startled at this wraith of my own fancy, I half rose from my chair—­then sank back again with a laugh at my imagination’s too vivid power of portrayal.  A figure did certainly present itself, but one of sufficient bulk to convince me of its substantiality.  This was the captain of the ‘Diana,’ a cheery-looking personage of a thoroughly nautical type, who, approaching me, lifted his cap and said: 

“That’s a wonderfully fine yacht that has just dropped anchor behind us.  She’s illuminated, too.  Have you seen her?”

“No,” I answered, and turned in the direction he indicated.  An involuntary exclamation escaped me.  There, about half a mile to our rear, floated a schooner of exquisite proportions and fairy-like grace, outlined from stem to stern by delicate borderings of electric light as though decorated for some great festival, and making quite a glittering spectacle in the darkness of the deepening night.  We could see active figures at work on deck—­the sails were dropped and quickly furled,—­but the quivering radiance remained running up every tapering mast and spar, so that the whole vessel seemed drawn on the dusky air with pencil points of fire.  I stood up, gazing at the wonderful sight in silent amazement and admiration, with the captain beside me, and it was he who first spoke.

“I can’t make her out,”—­he said, perplexedly,—­“We never heard a sound except just when she dropped anchor, and that was almost noiseless.  How she came round the point yonder so suddenly is a mystery!  I was keeping a sharp look-out, too.”

“Surely she’s very large for a sailing vessel?” I queried.

“The largest I’ve ever seen,”—­he replied—­“But how did she sail?  That’s what I want to know!”

He looked so puzzled that I laughed.

“Well, I suppose in the usual way,”—­I said—­“With sails.”

“Ay, that’s all very well!”—­and he glanced at me with a compassionate air as at one who knew nothing about seafaring—­“But sails must have wind, and there hasn’t been a capful all the afternoon or evening.  Yet she came in with crowded canvas full out as if there was a regular sou’wester, and found her anchorage as easy as you please.  All in a minute, too.  If there was a wind it wasn’t a wind belonging to this world!  Wouldn’t Mr. Harland perhaps like to see her?”

I took the hint and ran down into the saloon, which by this time was full of the stifling odours of smoke and whisky.  Mr. Harland was there, drinking and talking somewhat excitedly with Dr. Brayle, while his secretary listened and looked on.  I explained why I had ventured to interrupt their conversation, and they accompanied me up on deck.  The strange yacht looked more bewilderingly brilliant than ever, the heavens having somewhat clouded over, and as we all, the captain included, leaned over our own deck rail and gazed at her shining outlines, we heard the sound of delicious music and singing floating across the quiet sea.