Midnight passed, and in the cold, dreary hours between that and dawn, poor Missy's strength and courage ebbed low. She was chilled and ill; her fancy had been drawing such dreadful pictures for her they were having the same effect upon her as realities. She felt quite sure that the child never would be restored to them; that even now, perhaps, his life was in danger from the violent temper of the wicked woman in whose hands he was; that if she found herself near being thwarted in her object, she was quite capable of killing him. Her temper was violent, even outstripping her cunning and malice. Poor little boy! how terrified and lonely he would be, shut down, perhaps, in some dark hole in the ship. "I want you, Missy! I want you, Missy!" he had cried, heartbroken, in the darkness of his own nursery. What would be his terror in the darkness of that foreign ship. She felt such a horror of her own thoughts that she tried to sleep; failing that, she made Goneril talk to her, till the talking was intolerable. The men around the fire smoked and dozed, or chatted in low tones; the wind, which had come up again, made a wailing noise in the trees, the rising tide washed monotonously over the pebbles; a bird now and then twittered a sharp note of wonder at the untimely light of the fire upon the beach. These were the only sounds; the night was unusually dark; a damp mist shut out the stars, and there was no moon. It was just two o'clock; Missy had bent down for the fiftieth time to look at her watch by the light of the bonfire; Goneril, silent and stern, was sitting with her hands clasped around her knees, on the boat-house floor, when a sudden sound broke the stillness, a gun from the yacht as she rounded into the harbor. The two women sprang to their feet, and Missy clutched Goneril's arm. "If those milk-sops have come back without him," said the latter between her teeth, answering Missy's thought. Surely they would not have come without him; the father was not a man to give up so; and yet it was earlier than any one had supposed it possible they could return; and the wind had been so variable, and the night so dark. Could it be that they had come in, disheartened and hungry? feeling the barque was beyond their reach upon the seas, and excusing themselves by sending after her steam instead of sail? The men around the fire sprang up at the sound of the gun, and in an instant were all alertness. One threw a fresh armfull of wood on the fire "to make it more cheerful-like;" two others sprang into a small boat and pushed out to meet the yacht. "It'll be a half hour before they can anchor and get off a boat and land," said Goneril, impatiently. "It'll never occur to 'em that anybody on shore may want to know the news they've got. As long as they know themselves, they think it's all that's necessary."