little breeze had arisen, but here, inside the point, the water was still very smooth. Over to the right they could see the lights of the hotel; beyond, a little further around the curve of the bay, the clustered, twinkling lamps of the village. Above, on the hill, Billy could see the shining pointed windows of the little church and could even distinguish the sound of a hymn tune that came drifting down to them. But here upon the shore all was utterly silent, while no amount of peering through the blind dark could give any clue as to what manner of ship might be swinging at her anchor out yonder in the tide. Sally assured them in excited whispers that she could not have been mistaken, but the old Captain made no reply, as he alternately puffed fiercely upon his pipe or let it go out. He had just pulled out his match box to relight it for the third time when Billy touched his arm.
“I hear it,” he whispered. “Listen.”
The monotonous creak of rowlocks was plainly to be heard now, and the quiet dip and splash of oars as they rose and fell.
“But—but—they are coming from over toward the village: they are going past us,” Sally exclaimed. “What can that mean?”
