The Nantucket Steamship Company, which ran boats between New Bedford and the island, had, the summer before, put on a new big boat, the _Massachusetts_, and it was arranged that Mrs. Folger and Erica should go by that to the mainland, and from New Bedford to Boston by train. The trip, counting the waits and changes, would occupy the best part of a day, and Erica, who had never been off the island since she had been brought there as a six-months-old baby to be placed in Miss Charity’s care, was faintly ashamed of the eager excitement with which she found herself contemplating this entrancing chance to see new worlds—even if they were no farther away and no stranger than New Bedford and Boston. She told herself severely that with this dreadful uncertainty about Lis making her heart ache, and her breath catch sharply in terror whenever she stopped to realize the news Captain Bartlet had brought, she oughtn’t to be able to feel happy and excited over anything, no matter how novel and alluring. How could one feel frightened and sad and thrilled and adventurous and sort of—_palpitating_—all at the same time? She said something, shyly, about it to Aunt Charity once, and the latter proved unwontedly understanding. “It’s the prospect of doing something, dearie, that’ll take your mind off our fears for a time,” her aunt said, gently, putting a tender hand on the girl’s shoulder. “And unconsciously, too, perhaps you have a hope that news—good news—will be waiting in Boston with some ship just back from China. And you’re young, Erica. Youth swings quickly from mood to mood. It doesn’t mean you’re any the less worried over poor Lis’s fate. Take this little trip and enjoy it all you can. Seeing you hopeful will be the best way to help Aunt Callie.” The _Spray_ was to sail with the early morning tide on Saturday, so on Thursday Mrs. Folger and Erica embarked on the new _Massachusetts_, of which the islanders were so proud, and were borne over a blue and almost rippleless sea toward the far-away mainland which Erica, at least, had never seen before. For one cannot, as the girl pointed out very earnestly to the friendly, gray-bearded captain when he stopped beside their chairs on deck, to chat a moment—one cannot be said really to have seen a place one has only been carried through at the age of six months. The gray captain twinkled at the eager young face with its shining eyes, and the bobbed red curls dancing alively against each smooth cheek flushed with the sharp little sea wind. “Pity you ain’t a lad like Tommy, now, Miss Ricky, ‘stid o’ a pretty gal,” he murmured, gallantly. “Ye’d ha’ been a rare one to run away to sea adventures now, wouldn’t ye? I mind your father when he wasn’t no older than ye be, an’ he had the same hungry li’l’ imp o’ excitement in his eyes.”