ell you how thankful I am to you. You are truly a brave
boy, Dickory; the bravest I have ever known."

His brows contracted. "Why do you call me a boy?" he interrupted. "I am
nineteen years old, and you are not much more than that."

She laughed, and her white teeth made him ready to fall down and worship
her.

"You have done as much," said she, "as any man could do, and more."

Then she held out her hand, and he came and took it.

"Truly you are a man," she said, and looking steadfastly into his face,
she added, "how very, very much I owe you!"

He didn't say anything at all, this Dickory; just stood and looked at
her. As many a one has been before, he was more grateful for the danger
out of which he had plucked the fair young woman than she was thankful
for the deliverance.

Just then Dame Charter called them to breakfast. When they were at the
table, they talked of what was to be done next; and as, above everything
else, Miss Kate desired to know where her father was and why he hadn't
come aboard the Sarah Williams, Dickory offered to go to the town for
news.

"I hate to ask too much, after all you have done," said the girl, "but
after you have seen my father and told him everything, for he must be in
sore trouble, would you mind rowing to our house and bringing me some
clothes? Madam Bonnet will understand what I need; and she too will want
to know what has become of me."

"Of course I will do that," cried Dickory, grateful for the chance to do
her service.

"And if you happen to see Mr. Newcombe in the town, will you tell him
where I am?"

Now Dickory gave no signs of gratitude for a chance to do her service,
but his mother spoke quickly enough.

"Of course he will tell Master Newcombe," said she, "and anybody else
you wish should know."

In ten minutes Dickory was in his canoe, paddling to the town. When he
was out of the little inlet, on the shore of which lay his mother's
cottage, he looked far up and down the broad river, but he could see
nothing of the good ship Sarah Williams.

"I am glad they have gone," said Dickory to himself, "and may they never
come back again. It is a pity that Major Bonnet should lose his ship,
but as things have turned out, it is better for him to lose it than to
have it."

When he had fastened his canoe to a little pier in the town with a rope
which he borrowed, having now none of his own, Dickory soon heard
strange news. The man who owned the rope told him that M