“Probably, my wise little daughter,” Captain Eric said, with a tender smile for her worried face. “But as well as we can make out in the darkness, we have been blown into some sort of harbor—where, I’ve no means of telling till daybreak. There are small, scattered islands all about us, and we’ve doubtless been driven aground on one of them—in the lee of some promontory, I should judge, or into a natural, protected harbor. We are safe enough for tonight. The hand of the Lord has piloted us, in our need, and it will become us all to give Him due thanks before we sleep.” The wind was once more howling and shrieking in all its former violence, but evidently the _Sea Gull_ had, as her captain declared, found sanctuary in some sheltered inlet or harbor, for the full force of the storm seemed to pass high overhead as if deflected from her by an intervening barrier. The waves washed over her decks from time to time, but did not succeed in dislodging her from the rocky ledge she had run on. She did not even rock or bump against the reef, but rested in her new-found berth as securely as if built on a strong and safe foundation. After a little, rather anxious lingering on deck, ready for any new surprises that might come, the passengers of the _Sea Gull_ finally accepted her captain’s verdict and retired below to their several cabins, reassured as to the immediate future. The younger members of the party slept soundly, because even in the face of danger youth can sleep the clock around if left undisturbed. Erica’s last waking memory of that night was the continued shrilling whistle of the wind through her porthole, and the intermittent crash of waves along the ship’s side. The next thing she knew was a flood of early morning sunshine pouring in that same porthole and lying in a pool of bright gold on the golden Chinese carpet. The world outside was as peaceful and newly-washed and brilliant as if no noisy, murderous wind and battering waves had waged a losing battle the night before for the _Sea Gull_ and her human cargo. Milly Thorne was still asleep, and Erica, without waking her, slipped out of her bunk and padded across the soft, velvet pile of the carpet to the porthole and peered eagerly out. The sea had gone down in the night, and now lay spread out in gentle heaving bright-green swells from the porthole through which Erica was looking to the still greener shore of a low forest-clad hillside only a few hundred yards away. Erica stared, fascinated by the suddenness of the land’s appearance, and the dense, strange jungle growth of trees, underbrush, and creepers that matted the hill almost to the water’s edge. “Father was right,” Erica told herself, excitedly. “That must be an island—a real tropical island.” She stared a moment longer, then whirled on her bare heel, crossed the tiny cabin in two tomboy strides, and, snatching at her clothes, began to dress with fumbling, hurrying fingers. CHAPTER XVI