“And I said they were only to go out if there was no wind, gardener!” The old gentleman was almost weeping with alarm and anxiety, but yet he was comforted by what the man said. “They are going the contrary way,” cried Katherine. “Bless you, miss, that’s tacking, to catch the breeze. They couldn’t go far, sir, could they? without no wind.” “And that’s just what I wanted, that they should not go far--just a little about in the bay to please her. Oh, my little girl! She will be dead with fright; she will catch her death of cold, she will.” “Not a bit, sir,” cried the gardener. “Miss Stella’s a very plucky one. She’ll enjoy the run, she’ll enjoy the danger.” “The danger!” cried father and sister together. “What a fool I am! There ain’t none, no more than if they was in a duck pond,” the gardener said. And, indeed, to see the white sail flying in the sunshine over the blue sea, there did not seem much appearance of danger. With his first apprehensions quieted down, Mr. Tredgold stumbled with the help of his daughter’s arm to the edge of the cliff within the feathery line of the tamarisk trees, attended closely by the gardener, who, as an islander born, was supposed to know something of the sea. The hearts of the anxious gazers fluctuated as the little yacht danced over the water, going down when she made a little lurch and curtsey before the breeze, and up when she went steadily by the wind, making one of those long tacks which the gardener explained were all made, though they seemed to lead the little craft so far away, with the object of getting back. “Them two young gentlemen, they knows what they’re about,” the gardener said. “And there’s a sailor-man on board,” said Mr. Tredgold--“a man that knows everything about it, one of the crew whose business it is----” “I don’t see no third man,” said the gardener doubtfully. “Oh, yes, yes, there’s a sailor-man,” cried the father. The old gentleman spoke with a kind of sob in his throat; he was ready to cry with weakness and trouble and exasperation, as the little vessel, instead of replying to the cries and wailings of his anxiety by coming right home as seemed to him the simplest way, went on tacking and turning, sailing further and further off, then heeling over as if she would go down, then fluttering with an empty sail that hung about the mast before she struck off in another direction, but never turning back. “They are taking her off to America!” he cried, half weeping, leaning heavily on Katherine’s arm. “They’re tacking, sir, tacking, to bring her in,” said the gardener. “Oh, don’t speak to me!” cried the unhappy father; “they are carrying her off to America. Who was it said there was nothing between this and America, Katie? Oh, my little girl! my little girl!”