When he was fairly up the hill, Miss Sandford said,--
"You know how to sail a boat, don't you?"
"Yes," said Greenleaf, "I have frequently been out alone; but I thought
I would not take the responsibility of a more precious freight."
"It would be delightful to have a sail by ourselves."
"Charming, truly! Our salt-water friend may be a very estimable person,
but we should be freer to talk in his absence."
"Suppose you try it. I will sit here, and you take his place."
Greenleaf hesitated; the proposal was a tempting one, but he had no
great confidence in his own skill.
"The sea is like a pond," continued his companion. "We can sail out a
short distance, and then return for our pilot, if we like."
Greenleaf allowed himself to be persuaded. He shoved off the boat,
hoisted sail, and they were soon lightly skimming the waters of the bay.
They rounded the rocky point and stood for the eastward. Their boatman
soon appeared on the shore and made frantic gestures to no purpose; they
looked back and rather enjoyed his discomfiture.
Never did the sea have such a fascination for Greenleaf. He held the
rudder and drew the sheets with a feeling of proud mastery, deeper and
more exciting than the horseman feels on the back of his steed. These
first emotions, however, gradually lost their intensity, and he resigned
himself to the measureless content which the gentle motion, the bland
air, and the sunny sky inspired.
What had been the character of Miss Sandford's regard for Greenleaf
hitherto would he a difficult question to answer; it is doubtful whether
she knew, herself.
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