She was dressed, of course, in the costume in which she had been kidnapped, and like the sailors she looked very much the worse for wear and tear. Her jockey-shaped hat, so modish and even rakish when purchased, had fallen into a confusion of headgear, a something that might have wanted a name had it been found on the highway. Her hair looked wild in the inartistic dressing it suffered from. Her rich and characteristic bloom had faded, and what lingered was but as a delicate faint flush of expiring sunset. But even as she stood, not the most cynical and aspish of her own sex would have challenged her beauty, the charms of her figure, the melting sweetness of her eyes on whose dark-brown irids the white lids, rich in eyelash, reposed. Those eyes were wet now, and tears were upon her cheeks. But what was to be said aboard that loutish old brig, with a crew of half-starved, weedy mariners looking on agape? In a very few minutes Lucy was handed into the _Aurora's_ boat, and the party were making for the schooner as swiftly as the dip and sweep of oars could impel the keen-bowed little fabric. "What a wonderful meeting!" cried Captain Acton, blessing his daughter with a smile sweet and good with the pulse of the heart of a father who adores his only child. "You will have much to tell us, my darling." "Much," said the Admiral. "Oh yes. It is a story that will make you wonder," said Lucy. "I fear Aunt Caroline was terribly upset when she found me missing." "Oh, we'll soon stand her up again," said Captain Acton. "Did you recognise the _Aurora_?" "Oh yes, sir; how could she be mistaken?" answered Lucy. "How beautiful she looked as she came towards us!" "You have been half-starved in that brig," said Captain Acton, searching his daughter's face, and running his eyes over her dress. "We'll soon have her back again to her old moorings," cried the Admiral. "She cannot gain in beauty, but the schooner will give her the colour she lacks." There was very little to be said in that boat where there were five oarsmen to listen. The few of the crew who remained on board the schooner greeted Miss Lucy's recovery and arrival alongside by springing into the rigging and delivering cheer after cheer with much demonstration of arm and cap. She was carefully handed over the side, Captain Weaver receiving her, hat in hand and a succession of congratulatory bows, and without more ado she was conducted into the cabin that had been assigned her by her father, who embraced her again and again when he had her alone, saying that she looked tired, that she must take some repose before she began to tell him and the Admiral what had happened to her. He held her by the hands. He looked at her face; his affection, his gratitude, his delight overwhelmed him. "Oh, my dear, dear Lucy," he cried, "little can you conceive how the man who carried you off has made your aunt and me, and his father, suffer!"