The Real Charlotte. 95 



had determined that the saint should make no mistake 

 about their identit)^ and had struck upon the thorn bush 

 the corners of their handkerchiefs, one of them, a silken 

 triangle, having on it the initials G. H., while on the other 

 was a large and evidently home-embroidered F. 



CHAPTER XIV. 



Late that afternoon, when the sun was beginning to stoop 

 to the west, a wind came creeping down from somewhere 

 back of the mountains, and began to stretch tentative cats' 

 paws over the lake. It had pushed before it across the 

 Atlantic a soft mass of orange-coloured cloud, that caught 

 the sun's lowered rays, and spread them in a mellow glare 

 over everything. The lake turned to a coarse and furious 

 blue ; all the rocks and tree stems became like red gold, 

 and the polished brass top of the funnel of the steam-launch 

 looked as if it were on fire as Captain Cursiter turned the 

 Serpolette's sharp snout to the wind, and steamed at full 

 speed round Ochery Point. The yacht had started half an 

 hour before on her tedious zig-zag journey home, and was 

 already far down to the right, her sails all aglow as she 

 leaned aslant like a skater, swooping and bending under 

 the freshening breeze. 



It was evident that Lambert wished to make the most 

 of his time, for almost immediately after the Daphne had 

 gone about with smooth precision, and had sprung away on 

 the other tack, the party on the launch saw a flutter of 

 white, and a top-sail was run up. 



" By Jove ! Lambert didn't make much on that tack," 

 remarked Captain Cursiter to his brother-in-arms, as with 

 an imperceptible pressure of the wheel he serenely headed 

 the launch straight for her destination. " I don't believe 

 he's done himself much good with that top-sail either." 



Mr. Hawkins turned a sour eye upon the Daphne^ and 

 said laconically, " Silly ass ; he'll smother her." 



" Upon my word, I don't think he'll get in much before 

 nine o'clock to-night," continued Cursiter ; " it's pretty 

 nearly dead in his teeth, and he doesn't make a hundred 

 yards on each tack." 



