Mollie slipped into her place as a member of the little houseboat family as quietly as though she had always been a part of it. She was shy and gentle, and rarely talked. She was more like a timid child than a woman. She liked to cook, to wash the dishes, to do the things to which she was accustomed, and to be left alone. At first the houseboat girls tried to interest her in their amusements, but Miss Jenny Ann persuaded them that it was wiser to let Mollie become accustomed to the change in her life in any way she could. Mollie never spoke of the past, and she seemed worried if any one of the girls questioned her about it. They did not even know whether she feared the return of Captain Mike or Bill. The girls hoped that Mollie's lack of memory had made her quickly forget her unhappy life.
One thing haunted Mollie: it was her fear of strangers. If a visitor came aboard the houseboat the young girl would disappear and hide in the cabin until there was no danger of her being noticed. Jack Bolling and Tom Curtis came calling nearly every day, but neither one of them had seen anything of Mollie, except her flying skirts as she ran away to hide from them. They were vaguely aware of her unusual beauty, but neither of them knew what she actually looked like.
Madge was particularly sorry that Mollie would not see Mrs. Curtis. The houseboat holiday could only last a short time longer. Mr. and Mrs. Butler had written that they expected to return from California in about ten days, and must have Madge and Eleanor back at "Forest House." Lillian's and Phil's parents were also clamoring for their girls to spend a part of their summer vacation at home. So the question must soon arise: What could be done with Mollie when the crew of the "Merry Maid" disbanded? Madge felt they needed their friend's advice. But neither Mrs. Curtis nor Miss Jenny Ann thought it best to force Mollie to see people until she became more used to the atmosphere of affection about her, and had learned that no one meant to harm or ill treat her. Once Mrs. Curtis caught a brief glimpse of Mollie, standing framed in the cabin doorway. The girl had given a frightened stare at her, and then had fled inside her room. She could not be coaxed out again. Mrs. Curtis was curious. The one quick look at Mollie seemed oddly to recall some friend of her youth. It was nothing to think of seriously. She would know better when she saw the girl another time.
Daily Mrs. Curtis seemed to grow more and more fond of Madge. If Madge failed to come to see her every day or so, she would send Tom over as a messenger to bring her little friend back with him to luncheon or to dinner. She and the little captain used to have long, confidential talks together, and Mrs. Curtis seemed never to weary of the young girl's romantic fancies. She used to make Madge tell her of her family and what she knew of her dead father and mother. At times Madge wondered idly why Mrs. Curtis was interested in them, and every now and then she thought Tom's mother wished to ask her an important question. But Mrs. Curtis always put off the inquiry until another time.
Toward the close of their stay on the "Merry Maid" the girls were invited to a six o'clock dinner at the Belleview, given in their honor by Mrs. Curtis and Tom. On the day of the dinner Tom was sent to the "Merry Maid" to ask Madge to come to his mother an hour earlier than the others were expected. Miss Jenny Ann had elected to stay at home with Mollie. Nothing would induce Mollie to attend the party, and Miss Jenny Ann would not allow any one of the girls to remain on the houseboat with her.
Tom and Madge went up to the hotel on the street car, since it was impossible for Tom to row with his lame arm. They found Mrs. Curtis on a little balcony that opened off her private sitting-room. The piazza overlooked the waters of the small bay. It was a wonderful summer afternoon; white clouds were rioting everywhere in the clear, blue sky; the water was astir with white-masted boats, dipping their sails toward the waves like the flapping wings of sea gulls.
Madge was looking her prettiest. She had on her best white frock, and as a mark of her appreciation of Mrs. Curtis wore the string of pearls about her throat. Without making any noise, she crept out on the balcony and kissed Mrs. Curtis lightly on the forehead. Then she dropped into a low, cushioned chair near her friend's side.
"Here I am, dressed for the dinner," she announced happily. "How do you like me? Tom said you wanted me to come before the other girls, and that this was perhaps our farewell dinner with you, for you might be going away in a few days. Dear me, I am sorry. Are you going to Old Point Comfort for the rest of the summer, or to your own summer place?"
Mrs. Curtis shook her head. "I don't know, Madge, just where I shall go," she answered, pushing Madge's curls to one side of her white forehead. It was the way that Mrs. Curtis liked best to have Madge wear her hair. "But, wherever we go, can't you go with us?" she concluded.
Madge sighed. "I'd love to go with you," she sighed, "but I can't. You see, Nellie and I have to go back to 'Forest House,' to spend the rest of our holiday with Uncle and Aunt. They would be dreadfully hurt if I suggested making a visit to you, instead of coming home to them."
"Then I wonder if your uncle and aunt would allow me to make them a short visit?" questioned Mrs. Curtis gravely.
Madge opened her blue eyes. Why in the world should Mrs. Curtis wish to go to "Forest House"? But she answered her friend promptly. "Of course Uncle and Aunt would be most happy to have you, and Nellie and I would be perfectly delighted."
"Why do you think I am anxious to come, Madge?"
Madge smiled in her sauciest fashion. "To see me, of course," she replied. "Doesn't that sound conceited?"
But Mrs. Curtis was not smiling. She was looking at Madge so seriously that the young girl's merry face sobered.
"I am not coming merely to see you, dear. I am coming to ask if I may take you away with me for always. Haven't you guessed, that I want you to come to live with me, to be my daughter? Tom and I are lonely. My husband is dead, and I have no other child now, except Tom. I can't tell you how much I want a daughter. I have plenty of money, dear—more than I know what to do with. So we could have wonderful times together, and do anything we chose to do. Only I would wish you with me all the time. I couldn't let you wander off with the girls or go to boarding school. Tom has to be away so much. You haven't any own father and mother, and you told me that you were poor and would have to earn your living some day. So I thought perhaps your uncle and aunt would give you up to me. But, first, I wish to know whether my plan pleases you."
Mrs. Curtis stopped talking to gaze earnestly at Madge. The girl had turned so white that her friend was startled. She did not realize what a surprise her suggestion had been to the little captain. She believed that Madge must have partly guessed her intention. Miss Jenny Ann and Phil had understood that some day Mrs. Curtis might make just this proposal to Madge Morton. But to Madge it was a complete surprise. She had never for an instant dreamed of such a thing.
In a moment all the young girl's familiar world fell broken at her feet—the old childhood home in the country, her happy friendships at school. She saw a new world, like a vision in a fairy tale. It was a wonderful world, that contained all the marvels of which she had dreamed—wealth, position, admiration. Yet it was a homesick world, for it was peopled with few of the friends whom Madge loved, with none of the familiar places. In spite of the girl's fancies, the actual every-day life of poverty and hope was too dear to be laid lightly aside.
Mrs. Curtis still waited for Madge to speak.
"Uncle and Aunt——" she faltered. "They—would miss me——"
"Yes, I know," returned Mrs. Curtis sympathetically. "Of course, your own people will find it hard to give you up just at first, and Eleanor will miss you. But I do not believe your uncle and aunt will stand in your way if you really wish to come to me."
Mrs. Curtis concluded in the tone of a woman accustomed to having her own way. She was puzzled at Madge's indecision.
"Are you sure you care for me enough to wish me to live with you, Mrs. Curtis?" asked Madge quietly. "You see, you know only the nicest part of me, but I have a miserable temper. Nellie and my friends are used to me. Suppose you should take me away to live with you, and then grow tired of me?" The girl's clear eyes questioned her new friend gravely.
Mrs. Curtis smiled and shook her head. "No; I shouldn't grow tired of you. People may sometimes grow vexed with you, but they are not going to become tired of you. Now sit quite still. I want you not to speak, but to think very hard for three minutes and then to tell me whether you wish to be my adopted daughter. I do not wish to trouble your uncle and aunt unless you feel sure of yourself."
Mrs. Curtis took out her watch and laid it in her lap.
She did not look at the watch; she kept her gaze on Madge's face.
The little captain did not speak. She knew her eyes were filled with tears. She was so young, and it was hard to decide her whole future life in the space of three minutes. She realized that if Mrs. Curtis adopted her, she would have to give up her gay, independent existence among her old friends, the joy of doing for herself and of learning to overcome obstacles. Then, on the other hand, Mrs. Curtis loved her and she would give her everything in the world that a young girl could desire.
"Mrs. Curtis," declared Madge, when the three minutes had gone by, "I can't—I can't decide what you ask me now. Please don't think I do not love you. It is too wonderful for you and Tom to wish me to come to live with you. But may I have a few days to think things over before I give you my answer? The thought of leaving Aunt Sue and Uncle William and Nellie does—does——" Madge could not go on.
"Never mind, dear," soothed Mrs. Curtis. "It was not fair in me to take you unawares, and then expect you to make up your mind so soon. Suppose I give you three days, instead of three minutes, to think things over. Even then, Madge, we can't be sure that your uncle and aunt will be willing to let you be my girl instead of theirs."
Mollie was sitting alone on the deck of the houseboat. She and Miss Jenny had just finished an early tea. The girls were still away at their dinner, and Miss Jenny Ann had gone up to the nearest farmhouse to get some eggs for breakfast. It was the first time Mollie had ever been left by herself on the houseboat. But Miss Jenny Ann did not think there was any possible danger. Neither Captain Mike nor Bill had made the slightest attempt to get possession of Mollie. Nor did Miss Jones intend to be out of call for more than fifteen minutes.
Mollie had begun to lose the vague dread that had haunted her all her life. The peaceful hours of the past ten days seemed more real to her than the dreary, ugly years of her childhood. She began faintly to realize what life could mean when one was not afraid.
Mollie's hands, a little roughened from hard work, were folded peacefully in her lap. Her beautiful head, with its crown of sun-colored hair, was resting against the cushion of the big steamer chair. She was on the small upper deck, facing the bow of the boat. A strolling breeze had blown the hair back from her forehead, and the ugly scar was visible. But, now that Mollie's head no longer ached from the hard work she had been forced to endure, the throbbing and the old pain in this scar had almost gone. The girl was slowly finding herself. So far she had accepted her new life without a question, taking what was done for her like a contented child. Now she sat looking up the bay for the return of her friends. They would not be at home for several hours, but time meant very little to Mollie, and she had been lonely since they had gone away.
A skiff came down the bay with a single figure seated in it.
Mollie heard the faint splashing of the oars, but since water sounds had been familiar to her all her life she did not even turn her head to see if any one were coming near to the houseboat.
She knew the girls were due from the other direction.
The boat moved slowly in toward the shore. It made almost no sound, now that it drew nearer the land. With a final dip of the oars and a strong forward movement the small boat glided well within the shadow of the stern of the houseboat. There it stopped.
Mollie did not see nor hear it. For some moments the boat rested quietly in the shallow water, moving only with the faint movement of the evening tide. The solitary boatman sat without stirring. He leaned forward, listening intently for any sounds of life aboard the houseboat. He had espied the deserted figure on the upper deck.
In almost complete silence the man fastened his boat to the houseboat and in his stocking feet clambered up the side of "The Merry Maid" and came aboard. He slipped around the deck, crouching on his hands and knees. He listened at the doors of each room in the cabin. No one was about except the girl in the steamer chair. The man moved like a cat, with almost complete noiselessness. He made no effort to onto the deserted cabin. Nor did he, at first, make any movement that showed the least interest in Mollie.
At the farther end of the deck, outside the kitchen, the prowler made a discovery which caused him great satisfaction. He smiled. He picked it up and shook it furtively. The treasure was a big tin can, nearly full of kerosene.
Still on his hands and knees, the man tilted the can until the oil ran in a little stream down the deck and soaked well into the wood. He then put his hand in his pocket to look for something.
Mollie did not hear him. At least, her ears were not conscious that they caught a distinct sound. Finally she became conscious of the presence of some one near her. She got quickly up out of her chair and leaned over the railing of the top deck.
At this moment the man, with his back toward her, struck a match. Mollie beheld the crouching figure. She could not tell who the man was. Was it Bill or her father come to steal her away? The old, dreadful fear swept over her, with enough of memory to make her realize what her capture would mean. The girl's first instinct was to hide. She did not realize how poor a refuge the houseboat offered her. It seemed to her that, if she could only get into one of the cabin bedrooms and conceal herself in her berth, she might escape. Poor Mollie had no better idea to aid her. She came running down the outside steps and ran toward the cabin door.
The man rose quickly. He did not move toward Mollie. Outside the cabin kitchen was a big box filled with chips and bits of kindling, used to light the kitchen stove. The man gathered up a handful of these pieces of wood and ran back to his old position. He glanced at Mollie. But it was easy to see that she was trying to get away, not to hinder him in what he was doing. He picked up the oil can again. This time he poured the few remaining drops on a little pile of chips and lit another match. The tinder blazed up. The man fanned the tiny flames with the brim of a torn hat. The flare of light grew brighter; a great flame leapt up and then a snake-like curve of fire followed the oil-soaked wood.
When the man did not move toward Mollie she stopped in the cabin door. She was afraid of him. She was not like other girls. Ever since she had been able to know anything she had felt a curious, confused feeling in her head. She did not know who the man was on the deck of the boat. But she did know that he was trying to set their houseboat afire.
Mollie paid no further attention to the man. She did not scream at him, nor try to stop what he was doing. She rushed forward and began stamping on the pile of blazing sticks.
The man did not attempt to prevent her. He was watching the increasing length of flame spread over the deck. A second later he sprang up, ran across the deck, slipped over the side of "The Merry Maid," dropped into his rowboat, and rowed swiftly out of sight.
Mollie flew for the big bucket of water, which they always kept in a certain spot. She flung the water on the flames, but water will not quench the flames made from oil. The rail began to crackle, the sparks to fly. The "Merry Maid" was afire, with only one, feeble girl to save it!
Mollie knew that there were steamer blankets in the bedrooms of the cabin. She often had one to cover her when she took her afternoon rest. Remember, Mollie had had little education, but she had been brought up to work and to do practical tasks. It was but the work of a moment to drag out two blankets and spread them over the flames. The fire died down for a moment; then it crept through the fringe of the rugs, and a choking smell of burning wool showed that the blankets also were beginning to burn. But the brave girl had no intention of giving up the fight.
There were two other blankets left. Mollie started back to the cabin for these, when to her terror she discovered that the skirt of her cotton dress was in names. She tried to beat it out with her hands, but it crept steadily up toward her head. She cried aloud, but she could see no one coming to save her. The pain was more intense every moment. She could not keep still. She ran toward the edge of the deck. Before her the placid water lay cool and sweet. With a cry of pain, Mollie threw herself over the side of the houseboat. She did not realize how shallow the water was. She flung herself with all her force. Her head struck against the bottom with a heavy thud. At least the water was cool; the fire no longer burned her.
Miss Jones and Mr. Brown, who had joined Miss Jenny Ann on her way back from the farmhouse, heard Mollie's first cry of alarm. The artist had been coming down to the houseboat to make an evening call. Two strangers, a man and his wife, were strolling along the top of the small embankment. They also heard the call. The four of them started down the hill almost at the same time. Before they reached the houseboat, the odor of burning wood was borne to their nostrils. Miss Jenny Ann cried out for Mollie, but Mollie did not answer. Mr. Brown and the two strangers began beating out the fire on the boat. It had not spread far; the blankets had covered the flames and kept them from increasing. The overturned oil can gave the clue to the mystery. Mr. Brown dashed into the kitchen for a bag of salt, because salt more quickly puts out the flames from burning oil.
Miss Jenny Ann had, so far, been unable to find Mollie. Now she looked over the side of the boat, and Mollie's body could be plainly seen lying in the shallow water. Mr. Brown and the stranger together brought the girl back to the houseboat. She was insensible. In her plunge into the water she had struck her head with great force against the bottom of the bay. She was stunned by the shock, and when she returned to consciousness the pain from the burn and the blow made her delirious. As she alone could tell what had transpired in that brief hour, the cause of the fire remained a mystery.
"I think I had better go up to the hotel to prepare the girls for what has happened," suggested Mr. Brown a short time afterward.
Miss Jenny Ann seemed surprised at the thought of his leaving her alone with Mollie, and said so.
"Yes; I think I had better go at once," he announced decisively. "The doctor will be here in a few minutes. I can do nothing for you or for Mollie, but I can save the girls from the shock of returning to find their houseboat damaged and their friend so ill."
Miss Jenny Ann agreed quietly. If Mr. Brown thought it best to go, it did not really matter. "Ask the girls to come home as soon as they can," she added. "Phil is so clever in cases of illness."
"I'll borrow the 'Water Witch.' I think I can get up to the Belleview quicker if I go by water than if I wait for the street car to take me there. The girls will bring the boat home with them."
Mr. Brown disappeared from the deck of the boat a few moments later. He climbed into the "Water Witch" and rowed very swiftly up the bay.
Miss Jones had taken it for granted that their houseboat had caught fire by accident. She had not had time to give much thought to the matter. But Mr. Brown had other views. He remembered the boy who had attempted the robbery, and he had other reasons for his suspicions. A can of oil might very easily have turned over on the deck, but was there any reason to suppose that a pile of matches would be left lying at one side of the can? The young artist meant to make a thorough search for the possible offender. He wished to get out on the water as soon as he could, because he believed the incendiary had escaped that way. Mr. Brown and Miss Jenny Ann had been walking down the embankment at the very time the trespasser must have made his escape. If he had gone by land, one of them must have caught sight of him.
Theodore Brown was an ex-member of a Yale boat crew. He made the "Water Witch" skim through the waters, and at the same time he kept a sharp lookout for a small boat. There were a number of skiffs filled with young girls and men. But Mr. Brown was looking for a boat with the single figure of a boy in it.
He went toward the hotel, believing that the boatman would feel more secure if he were swallowed up in a crowd, than if he were seen in a more deserted part of the bay. Mr. Brown had almost reached the hotel pier before he came up to the character of skiff he desired to find. Then he was embarrassed how to accost the young man in it, as it was possible for him to see only the oarsman's back. Mr. Brown. came as close up alongside the stranger's boat as he could. Still he could not see the man's face. He leaned out of his own boat and called: "I want to drift along here and smoke. Would you be kind enough to lend me a match?"
The other oarsman apparently did not hear him. He rowed on faster. Again Mr. Brown caught up with him. He called, in an even more friendly fashion, "Haven't you that match?"
The stranger fumbled a minute in his pocket. "Sorry to disoblige you," he answered. "I haven't a match about me."
Theodore Brown laughed. The two small boats were almost touching each other. "Sorry to have troubled you," continued Mr. Brown, leaning as far over the side of his boat as he could. "After all, I find I have some matches in my own pocket. You had better take a cigar to show you forgive me for annoying you."
The artist struck a light and held it for a moment full in the other oarsman's face. It was only a second; the light flickered and went out. The man in the boat winced as the light shone on his face. "No, thank you; I don't smoke," he answered politely. With that he shot his skiff on ahead.
Mr. Brown followed behind him. He saw the other man was about to land at a deserted beach a short distance to the left of the Belleview Hotel pier. Mr. Brown did not make for the same shore immediately. He waited until the man was on land and striding out of sight; then the artist jumped from his own boat and went after the other man. Not many yards away was the side lawn of the hotel. It was a warm summer night, and a number of guests were strolling about under the trees. Mr. Brown put his hand on the arm of the fellow whom he had been following.
The boy leaped forward in an effort to wrench himself away. At this moment he recognized the artist and knew he had been overtaken. Mr. Brown kept a firm hold on his arm.
"What do you want with me?" demanded the lad, trying to appear at his ease. "Aren't you the fellow who came alongside of me in the boat?"
"I am," was the curt reply, "and I don't wish to ask a great favor of you. I simply wish you to come over to the hotel with me to see some friends of mine. We would like to ask you a few questions. Of course, if you can answer them satisfactorily, I shall let you go with my best apologies. I would advise you not to make any resistance here. You will attract the attention of the people on the lawn."
Mrs. Curtis and her guests were rather surprised when a hotel boy came up to her sitting room to say that Mr. Theodore Brown and some one else would like to speak to Mr. Tom Curtis for a few minutes, if that were possible.
Tom came back to his mother a little later, his eyes flashing. He related a part of Mr. Brown's story.
"If you don't mind, Mother, I think we had better have the fellow up here for the girls to see. I know he is the man who took the sailboat from Madge and me, and Mr. Brown says he is the fellow who attempted to rob the houseboat; but whether he has set it afire and nearly been the death of Mollie, we have no way of finding out. He vows he has not been near the houseboat since the day he promised never to return. If we cross-examine him up here, perhaps we can get at the truth."
Eleanor had slipped out of the room to find her coat and hat as soon as she learned of the accident to Mollie. The other young women were trembling with sympathy and alarm, but they waited to see the boy brought upstairs.
The girls were not long in agreeing to the identity of the prisoner as the evil genius of their past experiences. But there was no way of proving that he had actually set fire to the houseboat, for he still absolutely denied all knowledge of it.
Eleanor came back to the sitting-room. "Aren't you ready to leave, girls?" she demanded. "Miss Jenny Ann and Mollie need us."
Eleanor sniffed the air daintily. "What is that curious odor of kerosene, Mrs. Curtis?" she inquired curiously. "Do you think any of the lamps could be leaking?"
"Good!" Mr. Brown ejaculated. "What a chump I am! I have been conscious of that smell all this time and had not associated it with the houseboat."
Mr. Brown put his nose down to his prisoner's hands. Then he inhaled the scent of his coat. Tom Curtis followed suit. The odor was unmistakable. The lad was well smeared with oil. The circumstantial evidence was strong against the captured boy when Mr. Brown related the discovery of the overturned can and the spread of the kerosene on the houseboat deck.
"I am awfully sorry to have made this scene, Mrs. Curtis," apologized the young artist, "but I knew no other way for us to settle the matter at once. This young man has done too much mischief to our friends to be allowed to go free again. But you need not think further of the experience, I'll take the lad and give him up to the police to-night. Your son and I will be able to identify him. It will not be necessary to draw you girls into the business. We can manage without you."
Mrs. Curtis looked exceedingly uncomfortable. She had been bitterly angry at the way the lad had served Tom and Madge, and at that time she would have given a great deal to have had him properly punished. Since then he had added one evil deed to the other. But the boy, who was being led away to prison, seemed so young, not much older than Tom. He was wild and reckless in his appearance, yet he had the aspect of having been born of gentle people.
The youth had not spoken since the discovery of the oil on his hands and clothes. Now, as he was being led from the sitting room, he turned on his cross-questioners and shook with swift laughter. He threw back his head, so that his long, dark hair uncovered his ears. His eyes gleamed.
Madge, who was staring hard at the boy from her position on the far side of the room, gave an unexpected movement of surprise. She waited for the young prisoner to speak.
"You needn't trouble your girls to appear against me," he said savagely, "but you will have to introduce their chaperon in court, and a pretty thing it will be for a sister to appear as a witness against her own brother!"
A frozen silence fell on the group of listeners. Phil shook her head emphatically. "You are not our Miss Jenny Ann's brother," she retorted decidedly. "It would be perfectly impossible for her to have a wicked brother like you."
Theodore Brown's face flushed and paled. He would have liked to drag the lad out of the room without waiting another instant. Yet he feared to make the scene even worse. He did not have the slightest faith in the lad's statement; he was only fiercely angry at the boy's impudence and wondered if the fellow even knew the name of the chaperon of the "Merry Maid."
Lillian and Eleanor were flushed with indignation. Tom Curtis was equally so. But Mrs. Curtis happened to catch a glimpse of Madge's face. Her expression was a puzzle. She ran forward and touched Mr. Brown on the sleeve. "Wait a minute, Mr. Brown," she pleaded. "Don't take the boy to jail yet. What he says may be true. Don't you think we ought to ask him some questions first?"
The entire company stared at Madge in amazement. But in the single moment when Mr. Brown's captive started to leave the room, the little captain had seen the tips of his pointed ears. She had caught the wild, almost animal gleam in his eyes. She recalled the midnight visitor to their chaperon on the first night their houseboat had rested at anchor. She remembered Miss Jenny Ann's curious behavior, and how she had absolutely refused to give the name of her caller. All this swept through Madge's mind and now she understood Miss Jenny Ann's poverty, her reticence about her own affairs, her unhappiness when the girls first knew her at school. Of course, this wicked brother was the cause of their chaperon's difficulties. If they punished the boy, Miss Jenny Ann must suffer more than he would. She had lately grown to be as merry as any of the girls on board the "Merry Maid."
"O Mrs. Curtis!" exclaimed Madge, "please don't let Tom and Mr. Brown take him off to jail. I think he is our Miss Jenny Ann's brother. I wouldn't have her find out the wicked things he has done for all the money in the world." Madge was almost in tears as she made her plea to Mrs. Curtis.
"Never mind, dear," replied Mrs. Curtis soothingly. "If the lad really turns out to be your chaperon's brother, you are right; his behavior must be kept a secret from her."
Mrs. Curtis, Mr. Brown and Tom afterward found the statement of the wild boy to be true. He was really Miss Jones's brother. His parents had died when he was a little boy, and his sister had sacrificed her life's hopes to him. Yet her efforts had been in vain. He had always been hard to control. In the last few years he had broken away from all restraint. He had been concealed in the motor boat that first towed the girls and their chaperon to their anchorage and had seen his sister on the houseboat. His plan had been to get money from her. When she told him that she had none to give him he had devoted his time to tormenting the crew of the "Merry Maid" in order to be revenged on his sister.
After long consultation it was decided not to send him to prison. Mrs. Curtis gave him the money to sail for South Africa, after making him promise to try to turn over a new leaf, and not to write to his sister until he was safely out of the country. And so Miss Jenny Ann's ghost was laid without her knowing it until some time afterward.
Not one of the four girls closed her eyes during the long night following the dinner given by Mrs. Curtis. Miss Jenny Ann sat by Mollie until toward morning, when Eleanor and Lillian relieved her. Madge and Phil walked up and down the deck in order to be ready if they were called. But as the long night wore on, Mollie exhibited no sign of returning consciousness.
After an early breakfast the next morning Miss Jones went back to her charge, and the girls lingered in the cabin sitting room talking together in low tones.
Madge kept her arms about Eleanor. Every now and then she would lean over to kiss her cousin.
Nellie laughed softly. "What's the matter, Madge? Why are you so affectionate with me all of a sudden? Does it make you care more for me because poor, lovely Mollie is so ill, and because it might just as easily have been me, or Phil, or Lillian?"
Madge nodded. "Perhaps that is the reason."
Neither Lillian nor Eleanor even faintly dreamed that their friend had anything on her mind to worry her, except the critical condition poor Mollie was in; but Phil knew differently. She had long suspected what Mrs. Curtis's preference for Madge meant. Phyllis and Miss Jenny Ann had even discussed the possibility of their captain leaving them. However, Phil had never broached the subject to Madge. She Phil couldn't, she wouldn't think of it.
Mrs. Curtis and Tom arrived at the houseboat just as Madge and Phil were about to relieve Miss Jenny Ann's second watch. The physician had said that he expected Mollie to regain consciousness some time during the morning, and that she must not be left alone for a moment.
"Mrs. Curtis, slip into the room to see Mollie," whispered Madge. "Phil and I must go to her now. She is unconscious, so your presence could not frighten her. I want you to see how beautiful she is. She is really the prettiest person I ever saw, except you," Madge declared, as she threw a kiss to her friend and hurried after Phil into the cabin.
Miss Jenny Ann went into the sitting-room to lie down. Eleanor and Lillian went into the kitchen to wash the dishes.
Madge and Phil sat side by side at Mollie's berth. Madge's eyes were fixed on Mollie's unconscious face, but Phil looked often at her chum. Phyllis cared very little for wealth and position, for fine clothes and servants, but she knew these things were very dear to her friend. Yet, in a vague way, she realized that Madge would be likely to grow into a finer, sweeter woman without them. Phyllis understood their little captain. She knew that Madge was full of fine impulses, was brave and loyal in the midst of difficulties; but she also knew that she was easily spoiled and that too much money and admiration would not be good for her.
"Phil," asked Madge, "isn't Mollie stirring? Is there anything we ought to do for her?"
Phil bent over to gaze more attentively at their patient. She studied every curve and line in the girl's exquisite face. Now that Mollie's eyes were closed, and the vacant, pathetic stare was no more visible in them, her beauty was the more remarkable. Something in Mollie's quiet features seemed to surprise Phyllis, but she said nothing.
"We can't do anything but wait," answered Phil. "The doctor said that quiet is all Mollie needs. She is sure to come to herself some time to-day."
Phil slid her chair up close beside her chum's and kissed her friend on the cheek. It was an unusual demonstration for the reserved Phyllis. Madge stared at her. Then she turned a little pale. "You know what has happened to me, don't you?" she whispered. "I am sure you must know."
Phil bowed her head.
"Can't you help me decide?" begged Madge.
"No." Phil shook her head sadly. "You'll have to make up your mind for yourself."
The two girls sat in silence after this. They heard Mrs. Curtis come softly into the room and take a low chair in the far corner of the cabin, so as not to disturb Mollie if the girl should awake. She could just see the bed, but not the face of the girl on the pillow.
By and by Mollie stirred. "I am thirsty," she said distinctly. "Will some one please get me a glass of water?"
Phil rose quickly. "Here it is, Mollie," she answered, handing the girl the water, and trying to lift her with the other arm. Madge stooped over to aid her.
"Thank you," responded Mollie gently. "But why do you call me Mollie? My name isn't Mollie."
"We never liked to call you 'Moll'," replied Madge soothingly. "Mollie seemed to us to be a prettier name."
The girl laughed lightly. "No, I shouldn't think you would. My name is Madeleine, not Mollie. And you are Phyllis and Madge. I wonder why I never told you before that my name is Madeleine." Mollie's eyes had lost their pathetic stare. They were quiet and reasonable.
"Don't try to talk, Mollie—Madeleine, I mean," murmured Phil. "You must try to go to sleep again."
She and Madge never changed their positions until the ill girl's head grew heavy on their arms and she slept peacefully.
"O Phil!" Madge faltered, "you don't think Mollie is going to——"
"Sh-sh!" returned Phyllis warningly. "Don't show her you are surprised at anything she says."
Madge clenched her hands to keep them from trembling, but she could feel her knees shaking under her.
The patient opened her eyes again. "I fell off the yacht, didn't I?" she inquired. "It's funny, but I couldn't think what had happened to me for a long time. I was trying to remember all night. It was such a long night. I kept seeing dreadful, rude men, who were cruel to me. I must have been dreaming. Where is my mother? Why doesn't she come to me?"
"Your mother!" exclaimed Madge. A glance from Phil silenced her.
"Your mother can't come to you now, she is——" Phyllis faltered.
"Never mind," the gentle girl spoke faintly. "Mother may be resting. She must have been dreadfully frightened when she learned I had tumbled overboard. I think something fell and struck me on the head."
"Don't talk any more, please, dear," entreated Phyllis. "You can tell us all about what happened when you have rested a little longer. You are very tired."
The sick girl dozed again. Phyllis and Madge slipped their aching arms out from under their patient's pillow.
"Mollie's memory has come back to her, hasn't it?" Madge breathed in her chum's ear. "I wonder if it will go away again, or if she will remember more about herself when she is stronger?"
"I believe her memory has returned," Phil answered softly. "It is a miracle. We must be very careful. Any excitement or surprise might kill her. I wish the doctor were here."
Some one stole across the room without a sound. The girls knew it must be Mrs. Curtis. Neither one of them stirred nor for the instant glanced at their friend; they were too intent on their patient. But they were grateful for her presence. She had heard Mollie's peculiar remarks. She would know what they ought to do when Mollie began to talk again.
Mrs. Curtis came so close to the sick girl's bed that Madge and Phil stepped back to let her have the nearest place. She leaned over and looked at Mollie as though she would never grow tired of gazing at her. Once her lips moved, but it was impossible to tell what she said. Then Mrs. Curtis's strength seemed to give way. She dropped on her knees, with her arms resting on the edge of Mollie's bed.
Ten minutes passed. No one moved or spoke in the tiny cabin chamber. Mollie slept peacefully. Mrs. Curtis did not stir. She was like a figure carved in stone. She was waiting for something to happen. Was it for the girl on the bed to speak again?
Madge and Phil scarcely dared to breathe. They did not understand the situation, but they felt themselves to be in the presence of a mystery. A drama was being enacted in the tiny room, and they were the only audience to it.
"Mother, where are you?" Mollie's voice sounded clear and strong.
"I am here," Mrs. Curtis replied softly, not stirring from her position by the bed.
"Why hasn't Tom been here to see me? And why are Phyllis and Madge so good to me? I don't understand."
Mollie turned restlessly on her pillow. Her hair fell away from her forehead and revealed the jagged, ugly scar. Mrs. Curtis saw it. For the first time she gave an involuntary shudder of emotion. Mollie put up her hand to her head with the old, familiar gesture of pain.
"My head hurts," she announced, as though she had not known of her injury before. "Have I been sick a long time? Somehow, you look so different."
Mrs. Curtis nodded. "Yes, daughter, you have been ill a long, long time. But you will be well and happy when you wake up again. You are with Mother now."
Mrs. Curtis gathered Mollie into her arms and the two girls stole out of the tiny cabin, closing the door behind them. The mother and daughter were alone.
"What has happened to you, Madge Morton? Why do you girls look so strangely at me?" demanded Tom Curtis as he caught sight of Madge's face. He was leaning against the deck rail staring curiously at his friends. "Is Mollie worse?"
"Oh, no; she is not worse. She is well. That is, she can remember. She is—— Oh, I don't know what I am saying," cried Madge in confusion.
Miss Jenny Ann came out of the sitting room. Lillian and Eleanor also joined the little group on deck. Still Madge was silent.
"Ought I to tell?" she faltered, looking at Phyllis. "Don't you think Mrs. Curtis ought to tell Tom?"
"If you have bad news for me speak quickly!" returned Tom. "I would rather hear it from you than anybody in the world. You are almost like a sister to me, Madge."
The little captain went forward and put her hand gently on Tom's arm. "You won't need me for a sister now, Tom," she said gently. "Phil and I do not understand what has happened. Your mother will have to explain to you. But our Mollie is not Mollie at all. Her name is Madeleine. Her memory has come back to her. She thinks your mother is her mother. And Mrs. Curtis called her daughter!"
The cabin door opened. Mrs. Curtis walked out, moving like a woman in a dream. "Don't speak loudly," she said. "Madeleine has gone to sleep." She crossed over to Tom. "Tom," she explained quietly, "the girls have found your sister after twelve years; my baby is a young woman."
Tom put his arm about his mother. Mrs. Curtis spoke rapidly now, as though she feared her voice would fail her. "Miss Jones, years ago my little daughter, who was ten years old, fell from our steam yacht. She had been left alone by her nurse for a few minutes. When the woman came back the child was not to be found. No one saw or heard her fall overboard. The boat was searched, but Madeleine had disappeared. We were off the coast of Florida. For months and months we searched for my daughter's body. We offered everything we had in the world for news of her. No word came. I used to think she would come back to me. Long ago I gave up hope. Now, when I saw this poor Mollie, I thought I recognized my child, and when she opened her eyes her memory returned to her. She knew I was her mother, in spite of my white hair. I think it is because she now remembers nothing of her unhappy past. She thinks she was hurt only a short time ago. She must not learn the truth until she is stronger. Will you keep me here with you until I can take my daughter home?"
Mrs. Curtis staggered slightly and grew very white. It was Madge who sprang to her side and led her to a chair. "You have found what you want most in the world," she whispered, "I am so glad for your sake."