"Now," said Hardy, "I bring her again to her course: observe what I do: we call this putting the helm down." He brought her to her course and arrested her at it, and the girl cried, eagerly, "Yes, yes, I see. Let me hold the wheel, George." She grasped the spokes, a swelling, beautiful, conquering figure, a delight to the eye, a triumph of British girlhood, one of those women who are the mothers of the gallant and glorious sons that man the signal-halliards of our country. "Now bring the ship to windward of her course," said Hardy. "I do not understand you," she answered, reproachfully. "Make that bowsprit yonder point _there_," he exclaimed, and he indicated with outstretched hand a part of the horizon to windward of the bow. "Why didn't you speak more plainly? I can do it." She revolved the wheel by three or four spokes, and hailed with eyes of transport and conquest the response of the compass card. "Do you understand?" said Hardy. "My dear," she answered, "I can steer your ship perfectly." "Not yet," he said, "but you are not far off." Thus proceeded this pleasant tuition, and for half an hour Hardy stood beside the wheel teaching his sweetheart how to steer. The Newfoundland sat alongside of them and seemed to listen, for his loving eyes were often on Hardy's face whilst he spoke. He tried the girl again and again, and at the end of half an hour she was expressing keen appreciation of his delightful lecture by dutiful movement of the wheel. But, indeed, the ship did not need much steering that fine day. Had the helm been lashed it is probable that, braced as the yards lay, and pulling in steadfast accord as the sails were, the ship would have made a tranquil passage of an hour with no other check to the dull kicks of the rudder than a rope's end. He left the girl to steer whilst he tautened here and there a brace with the watch-tackle; then entered the galley, saw to the fire, the coppers, and their contents. He was accepting an enormous obligation; could he discharge it? He felt the heart of a dozen men in his pulse, and he knew that if God did not smite her with sickness the spirit of his heroic girl would make her the match of any man, able-bodied or ordinary; so, though the _York_ might be undermanned, her crew of a man and a girl, with a dog for a lookout, would carry her home. The weather was so fine that he did not mean to make a job of seamanship. He did not intend to keep a lookout for ships unless it was to escape collision, because no ship that hove in sight, however willing, should be allowed to help him. The _York_ was to be his own and the girl's fortune, and, much as he respected the sailor, no man afloat would be permitted to share in this estate.