There was absolute silence aboard the little boat; not a sight or a sound of any one stirring inside the cabin. Alfred Thornton pulled a large clasp knife from his pocket, then sawed savagely at the heavy rope that secured the anchor. It was the work of a moment to sever it. Next he pulled the divided ends into strands, hoping that the rope would look as though it had broken apart. There still remained the second rope that was twisted around the stake. Alfred crept cautiously out of the water up the little stretch of beach. This was his moment of danger. Any one looking through one of the cabin windows might see his dark figure. Yet Thornton hesitated. The wind was blowing strongly. Surely the pretty houseboat would not drift out into dangerous waters. Surely she would come aground a few miles further down the shore. The minutes were precious. Alfred Thornton quickly cut the second rope. Then, without glancing behind him to see the result of his deed, he ran with all speed to his own motor launch. "I know I am late," Thornton muttered to Tom Curtis as he crept into the cot alongside of Tom's. "I had to take that Harris girl home. She kept me talking on her porch for ages. A storm was coming up and it was hard to get across the bay. I shall be glad when this foolishness is over and we break camp and get back home again." When the ropes of the "Merry Maid" were cut she did not drift at once from the shore and in adventurous fashion, make use of her new freedom. The way outside was strange and uncertain. The "Merry Maid" had never traveled from a safe anchorage except when she was under escort and protection. Now she lingered, drifting uncertainly, but keeping close to the shore and moving very slowly. Half an hour after midnight the tide changed. The water ran away from the shore. The wind rose to a shrieking gale. But the "Merry Maid" was not unstable. The bottom of the boat was flat, she was broad and roomy. She did not pitch and roll, as a lighter craft would have done; she simply moved quietly away from the shore, borne by the wind and the tide. The houseboat had been anchored for two weeks along the southwest shore of Cape Charles, not many miles from where the great Atlantic Ocean enters the Chesapeake Bay. Slowly but steadily the "Merry Maid" drifted down the Maryland coast. Once out on the deep waters the pretty toy boat moved on and on. In the cabin Miss Jenny Ann and the girls slept peacefully, unconscious of danger. Soon the lights in the yellow-shaded lamps went out. The boat was in utter darkness. If there had been lights aboard the "Merry Maid," if early in her perilous voyage cries for help had sounded from her deck, the little boat would soon have been rescued. But with no lights and no sounds aboard, the houseboat passed on her way, and purely by chance her course did not cross the line of another craft. CHAPTER XI THE AWAKENING