The tops’il thus set, the vessel moved slowly before the wind, bearing down toward a schooner that was coming in, on the lee side. Barbara shouted— “You, Willful! what are you about there? Port the helm! Keep her clear of that schooner ahead! So—steady—nothing off!” The lad understanding the risk, exerted himself until all danger of collision was past. “Set the jib!—there!—Hoist the mains’il!—Brace round—there—there!—Stand by to haul out the mizzen!—And you, Willful, helm-a-lee!—so!—steady—stead-y!” The sails now filled with the wind, the craft moved swiftly onward. But Barbara thought that she could carry more canvas. She gave the order— “Stand by to hoist the to’-gallant-s’il!” The men worked heartily. And the vessel, now under as much sail as she could safely carry, ran before the wind, and passing between the North Point and the Bodkin, stood gallantly out to sea. Barbara drew a long breath, and came aft to speak to her passenger. Her cheeks were beautifully flushed, her eyes were sparkling, and her black hair, in that short ripple that indicates great vigor of constitution, was floating freely in the breeze. She seemed in no wise “breathed” by her late exertions. Lord Montressor, as he looked at her, thought he had never in his life seen a finer woman. “We have the prospect of a pleasant voyage, sir,” she said. “With us, the prevailing winds are, at this season, from the North West; we shall probably sail before a fair wind the whole way. Neither, this month, is there much chance of a thunder storm.” Lord Montressor bowed. “That is an agreeable hearing, Miss Brande; but do you not stop at any port on your voyage out?” “At no port, sir; but I shall cast anchor for a few hours at the Headland—my old home, sir, where I shall have to go ashore, to settle some final business with the young widow lady who has leased it of me. And if you shall be disposed to accompany me there, sir, I can show you one of the oldest houses in Maryland—a house that was built in the year 1635.” “And when shall we reach this Headland?” “With this fair wind, in six or seven days, sir.” Now what fatality was it, that prevented Lord Montressor from finding out the name of “the young widow lady” who had leased Barbara Brande’s house?—or from at once accepting her invitation, when they should reach the Headland, to go on shore and look at the house? That life is full of blindly missed possibilities, is the only answer I can find. They continued talking much longer; Lord Montressor growing every moment more pleased with his acquaintance; for there was a frankness, a directness, an uprightness and a _down_rightness about Barbara Brande, that commanded respect. “Excuse me now, sir,” she said, at last, “I must go and relieve my young helmsman; he is tired, I know,” and going forward, she took the tiller from the hand of the boy and sent him away.