“Let us try,” said she, calmly. “Stand by, ready to slack off, if I give the word.” And so saying, she took the tiller from the sailor, and seated herself on the weather-gunwale. “There, see how she does it now! Ah, Loony, confess, I am the true pilot. I knew my nerve would come back when I took my old post here. I was always a coward in a carriage, if I was n't on the box and the reins in my hands; and the same at sea. Sit up to windward, men, and don't move; never mind baling, only keep quiet.” “Miss Mary was right,” muttered one of the men; “the head-sail is drawing her high out of the water!” “Is that dark mass before us cloud, or the land?” cried she. “It's the mountains, miss. There to the left, where you see the dip in the ridge, that's Kilkieran. I think I see the lights on shore now.” “I see them now myself,” cried Mary. “Oh, how the sight of land gives love of life! They called earth truly who named her mother!” said she to herself. “What was that which swept past us, Loony?” “A boat, miss; and they're hailing us now,” cried he, peeping over the gunwale. “They've put her about, and are following our course. They came out after us.” “It was gallantly done, on such a night as this! I was just thinking to myself that poor old Mat Landy would have been out, were he living. You must take the tiller now, Loony, for I don't understand the lights on shore.” “Because they're shifting every minute, miss. It's torches they have, and they 're moving from place to place; but we 'll soon be safe now.” “Let us not forget this night, men,” said Mary, in a fervent voice. And then, burying her face within her hands, she spoke no more. It was already daybreak when they gained the little harbor, well-nigh exhausted, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety. As for Mary, wet through and cold, she could not rise from her seat without assistance, and almost fainted as she put her foot on shore. She turned one glance seaward to where the other boat was seen following them, and then, holding Joan's hand, she slowly toiled up the rocky ascent to the village. To the crowd of every age that surrounded her she could only give a faint, sickly smile of recognition, and they, in deep reverence, stood without speaking, gazing on her wan features and the dripping garments which clung to her. “No, not to the inn, Loony,” said she, to a question from him. “The first cabin we meet will shelter us, and then--home!” There was something of intense sorrow in the thought that passed then through her mind, for her eyes suddenly filled up, and heavy tears rolled along her cheeks. “Have they got in yet?” said she, looking towards the sea. “Yes, miss; they're close alongside now. It's the revenue boat that went after us.” “Wirra, wirra! but that's bad news for her now,” muttered a boatman, in conversation with an old woman at his side. “What's the bad news, Patsey?” said Mary, overhearing him.