“Oh, Andrew,” cried the little body with a sob, but crouching farther away into the corner, “it was so splendid of you!”

“What was so splendid of me?” said he, still in the doorway, tall and erect in the sunshine that lay around him, and that glanced along his red shirt and his bronzed cheek to light a flame in the black eyes that surveyed her.

“Standing by him so,” she sobbed—­“standing by the captain when the others left—­bringing home the ship!”

“It’s not a ship—­it’s a brig,” said Andrew, possibly too conscious of his merit to listen to the praise of it.  “Well, is this all?  Ain’t you going to shake hands with me?  Ain’t you glad to see me?”

“Oh, Andrew!  So glad!” and she turned and let him see the blushing, rosy face one moment, the large, dark, liquid eyes, the tangled, tawny curls; and then overcome once more, as a sudden shower overcomes the landscape, the lips quivered again, the long-lashed eyelids fell, and the face was hidden in another storm of tears.  And then, perhaps because he was a sailor, and perhaps because he was a man, his arms were round her and he was kissing off those tears, and the little happy body was clinging to him and trembling with excitement and with joy like a leaf in the wind.

Certainly no two happier, prouder beings walked along the sea-wall that night, greeted with hearty hands at every step, followed by all eyes till the shelter of deepening dusk obscured them, and with impish urchins, awe-struck for once, crying mysteriously under their breath to each other, “That’s him!  That’s the feller saved the Sabrina!  That’s him and her!” How proud the little body was! how her heart beat with pleasure at thought of the way in which all men were ready to do him honor! how timidly she turned her eyes upon him and saw the tint deepen on his cheek, the shadow flash into light in his eye, the smile kindle on his lips, as he looked down on her—­glad with her pride and pleasure, strong, confident, content himself—­till step by step they had left the town behind, wandering down the sandy island road, through the wayside hedge of blossoming wild roses and rustling young birches, till they leaned upon the parapet of the old island bridge and heard the water lap and saw the stars come out, and only felt each other and their love in all the wide, sweet summer universe.

Poor Louie!  She had always been as shy and wary as any little brown bird of the woods.  It was Andrew’s sudden and glorious coming that had surprised her into such expression of a feeling that had grown up with her until it was a part of every thought and memory.  And as for Andrew—­certainly he had not known that he cared for her so much until she turned that tearful, rosy face upon him in welcome; but now it seemed to him that she had been his and he hers since time began:  he could neither imagine nor remember any other state than this:  he said to himself, and then repeated it to her, that he had loved her always, that it was thought of her that had kept him firm and faithful to his duty, that she had been the lodestar toward which he steered on that slow homeward way; and he thanked Heaven, no doubt devoutly enough, that had saved him from such distress and brought him back to such bliss.  And Louie listened and clung closer, more joyful and more blest with every pulse of her bounding heart.