sied himself with it.

'Who are you?' she asked again, but she still had not courage to put out
her hand and touch him.

There was a little wooden wharf upon the shore, and to this the sailor
held the boat while Helen sprung out. Her feet were no sooner safe upon
it than the boat was allowed to move away. She saw the black mast and
the white figure recede together and disappear in the darkness.

Johns had to walk home by the shore, and in no small anxiety. When he
saw that his niece was safe he chuckled over her in burly fashion.

'Then I suppose,' he said, 'that some fellow got aboard her between the
puffs of wind. I hope it was none of those Syndicate men; they're a fast
lot. What was his name? What had he to say for himself?'

'She was flying far too fast for any one to get aboard,' asserted Helen.
'I don't know what his name was; he didn't say anything; I don't know
where he went to.'

Then the uncle suggested toddy in an undertone to his wife. The aunt
looked over her spectacles with solicitude, and then arose and put her
niece to bed.

When Helen was left alone she lay looking out at the stars that again
were shining; she wondered and wondered; perhaps the reason that she
came to no definite conclusion was that she liked the state of wonder
better. Helen was a modern girl; she had friends who were spiritualists,
friends who were theosophists, friends who were 'high church' and
believed in visions of angels.

In the morning Johns' boat was found tethered as usual to the buoy in
front of his house.

Long before this the Syndicate had suspected the Baby's attachment. The
strength of that attachment they did not suspect in the least; never
having seen depths in the Baby, they supposed there were none. They had
fallen into the habit of taking the Baby by the throat and asking him in
trenchant tones, 'Have you spoken to her?' The Baby found it convenient
to be able to give a truthful negative, not that he would have minded
fibbing in the least, but in this case the fib would certainly have been
detected; he could not expect his goddess to enter into any clandestine
parley and keep his secret.

Had the Baby taken the matter less to heart he would have been more rash
in asserting his independence, but he meditated some great step and 'lay
low.' What or when the irrevocable move was to be he had no definite
idea, the thought of it was only as yet an exalted swelling of mind and
heart.

There was a period, aft