The girl uttered a low cry, and sank back to her place in the sheets covering her face with her hands. Colonel Owen and Harriet had been unkind. They had been selfish almost to cruelty in their treatment of her, but in this hour of what she believed to be certain death to them she forgot everything but that they were kinspeople. The sea was running very high. Now that they were so near its surface they felt its full power. It had appeared stupendous when they were on the deck of the schooner, but now the great billows hurled them up and down, and tossed and buffeted them as though the boat was a plaything. Vainly the mate tried to steady it with the oars. A long time Peggy sat so absorbed in grief for her cousins that she was oblivious to the peril of the situation. At length, however, she looked up, and the dreadful isolation and danger of the position appalled her. Only that little boat between them and the great Atlantic. “I am cold,” she exclaimed, when she could bear it no longer. “Sir,” to the mate, who was making tremendous effort with the oars, “is there naught that will keep me from freezing?” “No,” answered he shortly, turning his set face toward her for a moment. Its tense lines relaxed at sight of the girlish figure. “Stay! I have it. Come, and row a while. You will be wetter than ever, but ’twill warm you a bit.” Without a question Peggy gladly took the place by his side, and began to scull as vigorously as her numbed fingers would permit with the oar he gave her. She was not of much assistance, but the exercise served to warm her chilled frame, and to divert her attention from their peril. In this manner the day went on, the wind died down, and the sea fell to a low, glassy, foam-flecked roll, while overhead brooded the inky sky, and round them was the leaden mist of the enveloping fog. Suddenly the mate stopped rowing, and raised his head as though listening. “It’s land,” he shouted. “Land, to the westward!” He listened again intently, and added solemnly: “And it’s breakers too, God help us!” Peggy listened breathlessly. The air was full of sound, a low, deep roar, like the roll of a thousand wheels, the tramp of endless armies, or—what it was—the thunder of a mighty surge upon a pebbly ridge. Louder and nearer grew the sound. The mate’s face whitened, and Peggy sat erect, full of terror at the unknown danger that confronted them. “I must pull,” he cried, sweeping her back to her place in the sheets. “I must pull,” he cried again as the fog lifted and the dim outline of a shore line became visible. “It’s a race with death, little girl, but we may be the victors.” With mighty strokes he sent the dingey ahead into the boiling surf. A great wave caught the little shallop upon its broad bosom and flung it upon the reef which lay concealed in the foam. There was a horrible rending crash as the stout keel snapped asunder, while a second wave swept over it, sweeping out the struggling occupants, and bearing them onward.