As if to make up for the storm which had so nearly stolen their ship, the weather all the way from Hurricane Island to Nantucket was as perfect as the most timid of ocean travelers could desire. Blue skies smiled down on a calm blue sea day after day; and a well-behaved sailing wind blew them steadily on their way, without the interference of gales or calms. The _Sea Gull_ skimmed the waters like a wild thing in flight, graceful as the bird for which she had been named, and as tireless. The white cutwater churning up before her slim, sharp prow was a never-ending delight to Erica perched in the bow, with the up-flung spray wetting her flushed face and leaving the taste of salt on her parted lips. Or, just before twilight fell, when the afterglow still painted the ocean rose and purple and gold, the stern was an equally wonderful place to lean against the rail and stare at the rainbow-tinted wake they left behind them, as they raced gallantly to meet the oncoming, misty dusk and the star-pointed darkness that came after. The call of the sea was in Erica Folger’s blood; always, in each generation, some of the men in her family had been sea captains. It was her earliest grievance against life that she had not been a boy and free to follow in their footsteps. It had been the one, certain, enraging taunt with which the twins could retaliate in their recurrent differences of opinion as children—their superiority in this respect. But anyhow, Erica told herself, this was the next best thing. A passenger may be an insignificant person when compared with a captain of one of these stately clippers; but a passenger can at least feel the beauty and the wonder of the sea just as keenly. Never, no matter if she lived to be an old, old lady, would the memory of this voyage in the _Sea Gull_ be dimmed by the passing years. Besides, if fate were kind, there would be other voyages. For instance, there was China, and a vague half-promise she had already wrung from her father on the subject. Erica’s fingers stole to a knotted Chinese cord she wore around her neck, on which hung a small, exquisitely carved jade-and-silver key…. She begrudged each shining day as it went by, and yet as the time arrived when any minute the low, gray outline of her native island would loom over the horizon line where sky and water met, she found herself watching for it as eagerly as Miss Charity, or the shipwrecked sailors from the lost _Narwhal_. After all, home was home; and no matter how beautiful and romantic desert islands might be to explore, Nantucket was the nicest place in the world to come back to. She was up in the bow with Lis when they first caught sight of the dim, far-off speck—a mere gray smudge on the low sky line—for which they were waiting. It was Lis who spied it first and touched her arm, pointing. ”_Nantucket!_” he said.