Missy felt too agitated to speak. The long excitement had taken all her strength away, and a half hour more of suspense seemed impossible to bear. Goneril also found it intolerable; she had not lost her strength by the day's agitation, but she had no patience to stand still and wait for them. "I'll run up and tell the cook to have some coffee ready for the gentlemen, and some supper. Most likely they've come in for that. Men don't work long upon an empty stomach. The boy wouldn't be much to them if the provisions had given out." With this sneer she hurried away, and left Missy alone. She came back, however, before the sound of oars drew very near the beach. She had caught up a lantern from the hall table as she passed it, and lighted it at the fire. It gave a good light, and shone up into her handsome face, as she paced up and down restlessly upon the beach. "Well, they'll soon be here," she said, standing still and listening to the regular stroke of the oars, and the sound of voices out in the darkness gradually coming nearer. "They can't be much longer, if they don't stop to play a game of euchre on the way, or toss up which shall stand the supper. Much they care for anything but that. If they could smell the coffee it would hurry them. Men are all alike." The voices came nearer; Missy's eager eyes saw the boat's prow push into the circle of light that went out from the bonfire, but the mist made it impossible to discern what and who were in her. She made a step forward, and the water washed against her feet; she clasped her hands together and gazed forward, scarcely seeing anything for her agitation. Goneril stood just behind her, on the sand, holding up the lantern, which shone through Missy's yellow hair. Missy saw some one spring ashore; she heard the captain's hearty voice call out: "All right, Miss Rothermel; you put us on the right track; we've brought the little fellow back, safe and sound, to you." Then some one else stepped out upon the sand; some one else, with something in his arms, and, in a moment more, a little pair of arms, warm and tight, hugged her neck, and a fretful voice cried: "Let me go to Missy--I want Missy--" and Mr. Andrews hoarsely said, trying to take him back, seeing her stagger under his weight, "Let me carry you; you shall go to Missy in a moment, and you shan't be taken away from her again." They were within a few steps of the boat-house; Missy, with the child clinging obstinately to her, staggered into it, and then--well, it was all a blank after that; for the first time in her life, and the last in this history, she fainted dead away.