How still and brilliant the starlight night. No sound but the sighing of the wind in the trees, and the trilling of the insects that wake at eve to chirp till day; and all distinctly, yet darkly visible, like a scene clearly drawn in Indian ink upon a gray ground. She passed down through the garden, the orchard, and the stubble field to the beach, where her little sailboat, _The Pearl Shell_, lay. For the trip that she contemplated of fifteen miles up the mouth of the river, a rowboat would have been far the safer. But Margaret was too weak for such prolonged labor as the management of the oar for two or three hours must necessitate. The sailboat would only require the trifling exertion of holding the tiller, and occasionally shifting the sails. Happily, the tide was in and just about to turn; the boat was, therefore, afloat, though chained to the boathouse, and so needed no exertion to push her off. Margaret went on board, untied the tiller, hoisted the sails, unlocked the chain and cast loose. She had but time to spring and seize the tiller before the wind filled the sails and the boat glided from the shore. So far all had gone marvelously well. Let who would discover her escape now, she was safe from pursuit. Let who would follow, she could not be overtaken. Her boat was beyond measure the swiftest sailer of the island fleet. True, before this fresh wind the boat might capsize, especially as there was no one to manage it except herself, who to shift the sails must sometimes let go the tiller. But Margaret was without selfish, personal fear; her purpose was high, and had been so far providentially favored; she would, therefore, believe in no accidents, but trust in God. And what a strange scene was this, in which the solitary girl-mariner was out upon the lonely sea. The broad canopy of heaven, of that deep, dark, intense blue of cloudless night, was thickly studded with myriads of stars, whose reflection in the mirror of the sea seemed other living stars disporting themselves amid the waves. Far away over the wide waters, darker lines upon the dark sea suggested the distant shores and headlands of the main. Straight before her flying boat, two black points, miles apart, indicated the entrance to the mouth of the Potomac River. She steered for the lower, or Smith’s Point. Under happier circumstances, the lonely night ride over the dark waters would have charmed the fancy of the fearless and adventurous girl. Now her only emotion was one of anxiety and haste. Taking Smith’s Point for her “polar star,” she gave all her sail to the wind. The boat flew over the water. I dare scarcely say in how marvelously short a time she reached this cape. This was the longest part of her voyage. Hugging the Northumberland coast, she soon reached and doubled Plover’s Point, and ran up into the little cove, the usual landing place, and pushed her boat upon the sands.