"Ruthie, I want to have a talk with Patterson, that man you saw come in just now. I'm not very keen about sailing, anyhow. Will you let me off this time?" "Oh yes; I don't care about going," Ruth answered. "You needn't give it up because I do," said her husband, kindly; "you like to sail. Take the ancient swell in my place. He will be delighted to go, for it will make him appear so young. Just Ruth, Anthony, and Walter--three gay little chums together!" As Chase had predicted, the commodore professed himself "enchanted." He went off smilingly in Paul Archer's yacht, whose device of an owl and pussycat confounded the practically minded, while to the initiated--the admirers of those immortal honey-mooners who "ate with a runcible spoon"--it gave delight; a glee which was increased by the delicate pea-green hue of the pretty little craft. But in spite of his enchantment, the commodore soon brought the boat back. He had taken the helm, and, when he had shown himself and his young companions to everybody on the sea-wall; when he had dashed past the old fort; and then, putting about, had gone beating across the inlet to the barracks, he turned the prow towards the yacht club again. It was the hour for his afternoon whist, and he never let anything interfere with that. The excursion, therefore, had been a short one, and, as Walter walked home with Mrs. Chase, she lingered a little. "It's too early to go in," she declared. As they passed the second pier, a dilapidated construction with its flooring gone, she espied a boat she knew. "There is the _Shearwater_ just coming in. I am sure Mr. Kean would lend it to us. Don't you want to go out again?" The _Shearwater_ was an odd little craft, flat on the water, with a long, pointed, covered prow and one large sail. Ruth knew it well, for Mr. Kean was an old friend of the Franklin's, and, in former winters, he had often taken her out. "My object certainly is to please her," Walter said to himself. "But she _does_ keep one busy. Well, here goes!" Mr. Kean lent his boat, and presently they were off again. "Take me as far as the old light-house," Ruth suggested. "Easy enough going; but the getting back will be another matter," Walter answered. "We should have to tack." "I like tacking. I insist upon the light-house," Mrs. Chase replied, gayly. The little boat glided rapidly past the town and San Marco; then turned towards the sea. For the old light-house, an ancient Spanish beacon, was on the ocean side of Anastasia. "We can see it now. Isn't this far enough?" Walter asked, after a while. "No; take me to the very door; I've made a vow to go," Ruth declared. "But at this rate we shall never get back. And when we do, your husband, powerfully hungry for his delayed dinner, will be sharpening the carving-knife on the sea-wall!"