perfectly

T time until the next day at eight, when the cruisers up-anchored and
passed out of the harbour. And as the broad Atlantic rolled under the
keels three hearty sighs emerged from as many throats. The two

boats passed Petit Manan Island toward ten that forenoon, a tiny rocky
islet holding aloft a tall shaft against the blue of the Summer
sky. "A hundred and fourteen feet," said Joe informatively, "and the
highest
lighthouse on the coast except one." "Gee, think of living there in
Winter!" said Perry awedly. "Guess Petit Manan isn't as bad as some of
the islands along here, at that," said Joe. "Some of them are a lot
further from the mainland. Remember Matinicus?" "Think of folks living
on them," murmured Han. "They must be merry places in Winter with a
blizzard blowing around! Lonely, wow!" "Remember the white yacht
we passed the other
day near Burnt Coal?" asked Phil, looking up from the book he was
reading.
"The _Sunbeam_ was the name of her. Well, a chap was telling me
yesterday about her. It seems she's a sort of Mission boat,
the Sea Coast Mission, I think it's called. The folks that live on
these off-shore
islands along here were in pretty bad shape a few years ago,
bad shape in every way. There were no
schools, or mighty few, and no churches, and the folks were just
naturally pegging out from sheer loneliness and--and lack of ambition,
just drifting right back into a kind of semi-civilized state, as folks
do on islands in the Pacific that you read about. Well, someone
realised
it and got busy, and this Mission was
started. There was a chap named MacDonald, Alexander MacDonald--"
"Sounds almost Scotch," observed Joe dryly. "Never mind what he was.
He's
American now, if he was ever anything else," replied Phil warmly. "He
was teaching school on one of the islands near Mount Desert
in the Su