"Who is the little girl, please?" she asked.
"She ain't little, Miss—no littler than you," returned Mrs. Kirby. "Her name is Nita."
"Nita?"
"That's what she calls herself."
"Nita what?" asked Ruth.
"I don't know, I'm sure. I believe she's run away from her folks. She won't tell much about herself. She only came aboard at Portland. In fact, I found her there on the dock, and she seemed hungry and neglected, and she told us first that she wanted to go to her folks in New York—and that's where the Whipstitch was bound."
"The Whipstitch is the name of the schooner?"
"Yes, Miss. And now Jim's lost her. But—thanks be!—she was insured," said the captain's wife.
At that moment another hearty shout went up from the crowd on shore. The breeches buoy was at the wreck again. They saw the men there lift the girl into the buoy, which was rigged like a great pair of overalls. The passenger sat in this sack, with her legs thrust through the apertures below, and clung to the ring of the buoy, which was level with her shoulders.
She started from the ship in this rude conveyance, and the girls gathered eagerly to greet her when she landed. But several waves washed com-
