She hesitated a minute and sank back, biting her lip close. The line of gunwale that rose with heavy sweep to the sky and fell through space, cut her off. There was only the creaking of the boat, straining against the sea, and the figure of the man, above her, who had thrust her down—the great figure of the man and the blackened sky. By and by the rain fell and drenched her and the wind blew fiercely past the boat, driving them on. She could see the great hand on the tiller tighten itself to the wind, and force its will upon it, and the figure of the man grow tense. One leg thrust itself quickly and struck against her and pushed her hard—but she would not cry out—She hated him and his boat and the great sea pounding about them.... She wanted to get her pan of fish and go home to Uncle William and cook the dinner. The tears were on her face, mingling with the rain and the salt water that drenched it. By and by the pounding waves grew less and the boat ceased to strain and creak and the great hand on the tiller relaxed its hold a little. “You ’d better get up now,” he said—his voice sounded rough and indifferent and she lifted indignant eyes, but he did not see her. His gaze was still on the horizon, holding it with intent look. She got up and gathered the little loose curls in her hands, wringing the water from them and shaking them apart. Then she got to her knees and crawled to the seat, shivering a little. Off to the left, the woods of the Point shut off the main force of the wind, but the breeze was still fresh. He took off his coat and tossed it to her. “Put that on,” he said briefly. It fell on the seat beside her, but she did not touch it or look at it. Her little face had a firm look. His gaze left the horizon, for a flash, and came back. “You put on that coat,” he said. “I don’t want it—” The words trailed away in a sob. He did not look at her again. “You ’ll do as I tell you,” he said quietly—“or I shall make you.” She reached out for the coat and put it on, drawing it miserably about her chin—“I think you are horrid.” She was wiping away the tears that ran quickly down. “I don’t care what you think—You might have been killed,” he added after a pause. “I’d rather—have been—killed.” The breath she drew was a quick sob. He looked at her a minute. Then he looked away to the horizon. “There can’t be two captains on a boat,” he said dryly—“I didn’t mean to hurt you—I had to speak quick.” She did not reply. She did not look at him again—not even when he helped her into the dory and rowed her ashore. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated, as he held up his hand to help her from the boat. She leaped to the beach. “I wish I’d never gone with you.” She stamped her little foot on the sand. “I’ll never go again—never, never—not as long as I live!” She turned her back on him and walked toward the fish-house.