At the tiller where her uncle ought to have been, and just in the attitude in which he always stood, was a slight white figure.

A new sort of fear took possession of Helen; at first she could not speak or move, but kept her eyes wide open lest the ghostly thing should come near her unawares.
This illusion might be a forerunner of the death to which she was hastening, the Angel of Death himself steering her to destruction! Then in a strange voice came the familiar shout, the warning to hold down her head.

The sail swung over in the customary way; every movement of the figure at the helm was so familiar and natural that comfort began to steal into her heart.

Plainly, whoever had taken command of the drifting craft knew his business; might it not be an angel of life, and not of death?
Now in plain sober reality, as her pulses ceased to dance so wildly, Helen could not believe that her companion was angel or spirit.

One does not believe in such companionship readily.
She scrambled to her knees and steadied herself by the seat.