"You go down there and work an hour or two yourself, and see how _you_ like it," answered the other, with the irrelevance produced by aching muscles and perspiration dripping from every pore. This conversation had taken place at the edge of the marsh where they had brought the boat up through one of the numerous channels. "Very well," said Keith. "But mind you, not a word about danger before the Sister. I shall have hard enough work to persuade her to come with us as it is." He went back to the ridge, and carelessly suggested returning home by water. "You will not have to go through the thicket then," he said. Somewhat to his surprise, Sister St. Luke consented immediately, and followed without a word as he led the way. She was mortally afraid of the water, but, during his absence, she had been telling her beads, and thinking with contrition of two obstinacies in one day: that of the thicket and that of the veil; she could not, she would not have three. So, commending herself to all the saints, she embarked. "Look here, Carrington, if ever you inveigle me into such danger again for a mere fool's fancy, I will show you what I think of it. You knew the condition of that boat, and I did not," said Keith sternly as the two men stood at last on the beach in front of the light-house. The Sister had gone within, glad to feel land underfoot once more. She had sat quietly in her place all the way, afraid of the water, of the wind, of everything, but entirely unconscious of the real danger that menaced them. For the little craft would not mind her helm; her mast slipped about erratically; the planking at the bow seemed about to give way altogether; and they were on a lee shore, with the tide coming in, and the surf beating roughly on the beach. They were both good sailors, but it had taken all they knew to bring the boat safely to the lighthouse. "To tell the truth, I did not think she was so crippled," said Carrington. "She really is a good boat for her size." "Very," said Keith sarcastically. But the younger man clung to his opinion; and in order to verify it, he set himself to work repairing the little craft. You would have supposed his daily bread depended upon her being made seaworthy by the way he labored. She was made over from stem to stern: a new mast, a new sail; and, finally, scarlet and green paint were brought over from the village, and out she came as brilliant as a young paroquet. Then Carrington took to sailing in her. Proud of his handy work, he sailed up and down, over to the reef, and up the inlet, and even persuaded Melvyna to go with him once, accompanied by the meek little Sister. "Why shouldn't you both learn how to manage her?" he said in his enthusiasm. "She's as easy to manage as a child----" "And as easy to tip over," replied Melvyna, screwing up her lips tightly and shaking her head. "You don't catch me out in her again, sure as my name's Sawyer."