"Not a syllable," said Captain Jennings gravely. "But while the tug is
getting ready, general, hadn't Mrs. Bunker better go to Mrs. Flanigan?"

"I think not," said the general, with a significant look at the officer
as he gallantly offered his arm to the astonished Mrs. Bunker, "if she
will allow me the pleasure of taking her to my wife."

There was an equally marked respect in the manner of the men and
officers as Mrs. Bunker finally stepped on board the steam tug that was
to convey the party across the turbulent bay. But she heeded it
not, neither did she take any concern of the still furious gale, the
difficult landing, the preternatural activity of the band of sappers,
who seemed to work magic with their picks and shovels, the shelter tents
that arose swiftly around her, the sheds and bush inclosures that were
evoked from the very ground beneath her feet; the wonderful skill,
order, and discipline that in a few hours converted her straggling
dominion into a formal camp, even to the sentinel, who was already
calmly pacing the rocks by the landing as if he had being doing it for
years! Only one thing thrilled her--the sudden outburst, fluttering and
snapping of the national flag from her little flagstaff. He would see
it--and perhaps be pleased!

And indeed it seemed as if the men had caught the infection of her
anxiety, for when her strained eyes could no longer pierce the murky
twilight settling over the Gate, one came running to her to say that the
lookout had just discovered through his glass a close-reefed schooner
running in before the wind. It was her husband, and scarcely an hour
after night had shut in the schooner had rounded to off the Point,
dropped her boat, and sped away to anchorage. And then Mrs. Bunker,