ed to stop beating as she visioned him beneath the mass of tackle.
Or had he been swept off his feet--overboard into the welter of grey,
surging waters that clamoured round the boat?

The moment of uncertainty seemed endless, immeasurable. Then Michael
appeared, stepping across the wreckage, and came towards her. The relief
was almost unendurable. She stretched out shaking hands.

"Oh, Michael! . . . Michael!" she cried sobbingly.

And all at once she was in his arms. She felt them close about her,
strong as steel and tender as love itself. In the rocking, helpless
boat, with the storm beating up around them and death a sudden, imminent
hazard, she had come at last into haven.

An hour later the storm had completely died away. It had begun to abate
in violence almost immediately after the breaking of the _Bella Donna's_
mast. It was as though, having wreaked its fury and executed all the
damage possible short of absolute destruction, it was satisfied. With
the same suddenness with which it had arisen it sank away, leaving a
sulky, sunless sky brooding above a sullen sea still heaving restlessly
with the aftermath of tempest.

The yacht had drifted gradually out of mid-channel shorewards, and after
one or two unsuccessful efforts Quarrington at last succeeded in
casting anchor. Then he turned to Magda, who had been assisting in the
operation, with a smile.

"That's about all we can do," he said. "We're perfectly helpless till
some tug or steamer comes along."

"Probably they'll run us down," she suggested. "We're in the fairway,
aren't we?"

"Yes--which is about our best hope of getting picked up before night."
Then, laying his hand on her arm: "Are you very cold and wet?"

Magda laughed--laughed out of sheer happiness. What did being cold
matter, or wet either, if Michael loved her? And she was sure now
that he did, though there had been but the one moment's brief embrace.
Afterwards he had had his hands full endeavouring to keep the _Bella
Donna_ afloat.

"I think the wind has blown my things dry," she said. "How about you?"

"Oh, I'm all right--men's clothing being adapted for use, not ornament!
But I must find something to wrap you up in. We may be here for hours
and the frock you're wearing has about as much warming capacity as a
spider's web."

He disappeared below into the tiny, single-berthed cabin, and presently
returned armed with a couple of blankets, one of which he proceeded to
wrap about Magd