And so it proved. A moon rose, and with it a mist. The _Altamaha_, ceasing her nosing progress through the little channels, turned sharply eastward, and seemed suddenly to have entered the ocean, for great waves began to toss her and knock her about with more and more violence, until at last the only steady thing in sight was the blazing star of Jupiter Light, which still shone calmly ahead. After half an hour of this rough progress a low beach presented itself through the mist, and the blazing star disappeared, its place being taken by a spectral tower, tall and white, which stood alone at the end of a long curving tongue of sand. The steamer, with due caution, drew near a lonely little pier. "It isn't much of a place, then?" said Miss Bruce, as the captain, in the exigencies of making a safe landing with his cockle-shell, again paused for a moment near her chair. "Place? Post-office and Romney; that's all. Slacken off that line there--you hear? Slacken, I tell you!" A moment later the traveller, having made her way with difficulty through the little boat's dark, wet, hissing lower regions, emerged, and crossed a plank to the somewhat safer footing beyond. "Is this Cicely?" she asked, as a small figure came to meet her. "Yes, I am Cicely." Eve Bruce extended her hand. But Cicely put up her face for a warmer greeting. "Are those your trunks? Oh, you have brought some one with you?" "It's only Meadows, my maid; she goes back to-morrow when the boat returns." "There's room for her, if you mean that; the house is large enough for anything. I was only wondering what our people would make of her; they have never seen a white servant in their lives." "You didn't bring--the baby?" asked Eve Bruce. "Jack? Oh, no; Jack's asleep." Eve quivered at the name. "Are you cold?" said Cicely. "We'll start as soon as that hissing boat gets off. I hope you don't mind riding behind a mule? Oh, look!" and she seized her companion's arm. "Uncle Abram is shocked that your maid--what did you call her--Fields?--should be carrying anything--a white lady, as he supposes; and he is trying to take the bag away from her. She's evidently frightened; Pomp and Plato haven't as many clothes on as they might have, I acknowledge. Oh, do look!" Eve, still quivering, glanced mechanically in the direction indicated. A short negro, an old man with abnormally long arms, was endeavoring to take from Meadows's grasp a small hand-bag which she was carrying. Again and again he tried, and the girl repulsed him. Two more negroes approached, and lifted one of the trunks which she was guarding. She followed the trunk; and now Uncle Abram, coming round on the other side, tried to get possession of a larger bag which she held in her left hand. She wrenched it from him several times desperately, and then, as he still persisted, she used it as a missile over the side of his head, and began to shriek and run.