"As a matter of fact," I answered, "I don't think we will lose much time, after all. If we still had the canoe, we would be storm-bound in the bay back there till the wind changes or subsides--and it may be days before it does the one or the other. As it is, the worst that has befallen us is the loss of our ammunition and our bread. But we will make shift to live, belike, till we reach Canseau." "Oh, Monsieur," she cried, in answer, with a great emotion in her voice, "you give me hope when my despair is blackest. You seem to me more generous, more brave, more strong, than I had dreamed the greatest could be. What makes you so good to an unhappy mother, so faithfully devoted to a poor baby whom you have never seen?" "Tut, tut!" said I, roughly; "I but do as any proper minded man would do that had the right skill and the fitting opportunity. Thank Marc!" But I might have told her more if I had let my heart speak truth. "I know whom to thank, and all my life long will I pray Heaven to bless that one!" said Mizpah. Thus talking by the way, but most of the way silent, we came at length over Merigomish and down to the sea again, fetching the shore at the head of a second bay. This was all in a smother and a roar, like that we had just left behind. As we rounded the head of it, we came upon a little sheltered creek, and there, safe out of the gale, lay a small New England fishing schooner. I knew her by the build for a New Englander, before I saw the words OSPREY, PLYMOUTH, painted in red letters on her stern. "Here is fortune indeed!" said I, while a cry of gladness sprang to Mizpah's lips. "I'll charter the craft to take us up the Bras d'Or." The little ship lay in a very pleasant idleness. The small haven was full of sun, the green, wooded hills sloping softly down about it and shutting off all winds. The water heaved and rocked; but smoothly, stirred by the yeasty tumult that roared past the narrow entrance. The clamour of the surf outside made the calm within the more excellent. Several gray figures of the crew lay sprawling about the deck, which we could see very well, by reason of the steepness of the shore on which we stood. In the waist was a gaunt, brown-faced man, with a scant, reddish beard, a nose astonishingly long and sharp, and a blue woollen cap on the back of his head. He stood leaning upon the rail watching us, and spitting contemplatively into the water from time to time. We climbed down to the beach beside the schooner, and I spoke to the man in English. "Are you the captain?" I asked civilly. "They do say I be," he answered in a thin, high, sing-song of a voice. "Captain Ezra Bean, Schooner _Osprey_, of Plymouth, at your sarvice." And he waved his hand with a spacious air.