“How long does it take?” I asked.

“Three hours, in weather like this.  It’s about fifty miles.”

“But then it will be dark,” I objected.

“That won’t matter, ma’am—­we have plenty of light of our own.  We shan’t have trouble, unless the wind rises, and there’s a chain of keys all the way, where we can get shelter if it does.  The worst you have to fear is spending a night on board.”

I reflected that I could not well be more uncomfortable than I had been the previous night, so I voted for a start.  There was mail and some supplies to be put on board; then I made a spring for the deck, as it surged up towards me on a rising wave, and in a moment more the cabin-door had shut behind me, and I was safe and snug, in the midst of leather and mahogany and electric-lighted magnificence.  Through the heavy double windows I saw the dock swing round behind us, and saw the torrents of green spray sweep over us and past.  I grasped at the seat to keep myself from being thrown forward, and then grasped behind, to keep from going in that direction.  I had a series of sensations as of an elevator stopping suddenly—­and then I draw the curtains of the “Merman’s” cabin, and invite the reader to pass by.  This is Sylvia’s story, and not mine, and it is of no interest what happened to me during that trip.  I will only remind the reader that I had lived my life in the far West, and there were some things I could not have foreseen.

12.  “We are there, ma’am,” I heard one of the boatmen say, and I realised vaguely that the pitching had ceased.  He helped me to sit up, and I saw the search-light of the craft sweeping the shore of an island.  “It passes off ’most as quick as it comes, ma’am,” added my supporter, and for this I murmured feeble thanks.

We came to a little bay, where the power was shut off, and we glided towards the shore.  There was a boat-house, a sort of miniature dry-dock, with a gate which closed behind us.  I had visions of Sylvia waiting to meet me, but apparently our arrival had not been noted, and for this I was grateful.  There were seats in the boat-house, and I sank into one, and asked the man to wait a few minutes while I recovered myself.  When I got up and went to the house, what I found made me quickly forget that I had such a thing as a body.

There was a bright moon, I remember, and I could see the long, low bungalow, with windows gleaming through the palm-trees.  A woman’s figure emerged from the house and came down the white shell-path to meet me.  My heart leaped.  My beloved!

But then I saw it was the English maid, whom I had come to know in New York; I saw, too, that her face was alight with excitement.  “Oh, my lady!” she cried.  “The baby’s come!”

It was like a blow in the face. “What?” I gasped.

“Came early this morning.  A girl.”

“But—­I thought it wasn’t till next week!”

“I know, but it’s here.  In that terrible storm, when we thought the house was going to be washed away!  Oh, my lady, it’s the loveliest baby!”