Between Wingate's cottage and Rugg's, Captain Ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. Now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it—chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. He seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. And just this is he thinking of, his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward.

Whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. The time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. It will, but not to-night.

He has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon's disc, now low. It is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the Roman Catholic chapel at Rugg's. Soon as abreast of it, he commands—

"Hold way, Jack! Keep her steady awhile!"

The waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. He is himself interrogated the instant after, thus,—

"You see that shadowed spot under the bank—by the wall?"

"I do, Captain."

"Is there any landing-place there for a boat?"

"None, as I know of. Course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank bean't eyther a cliff or a quagmire. The reg'lar landin'-place be above, where the ferry punt lays."

"But have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?"

The question has reference to the place first spoken of.

"I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an' the occasion not o' the pleasantest kind. 'Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an' plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it, not wishin' to be obsarved by that sneak o' a priest, nor any o' their Romish lot. Exceptin' my own, I never knew or heard o' another boat bein' laid long there."

"All right! Now on!"

And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with.

For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking, his thoughts concentrated on the one theme—endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself, but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities—how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death.

He is still observed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking—

"Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right-o'-way path through Powell's meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you'd like best, an' don't think o' any difference it makes to me."

"Thanks, Jack; it's very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There'll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow—it may be for the whole of the day—you'd better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you've an errand at Rugg's—to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed."

"Ah! I didn't think o' that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin' me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn't like to disappoint her—for a good deal."

"Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I've been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself."

"I will, you may rely on me, Captain."

The boat is brought against the bank; Ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back, "Good-night," and strikes off along the footpath.

Not a moment delays the waterman; but, shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut.

He is in good time, however, and reaches Rugg's to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open.

Going in, he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man who has come to the ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. It is Joseph Preece, "Old Joe," erst boatman of Llangorren Court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large.

Though the acquaintance between him and Wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them—stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. For of late, in the exercise of their respective metiers, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened "confab" in the Gwendoline's dock.

It is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, Joe being chief spokesman. And now that he has done his shopping, Jack can spare the time to listen. It will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won't mind that. She saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand.

So the two stand conversing till the gossipy Joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in delivery.

Then they part, the ex-Charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff.

Stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down.

A few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. There is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly.

He in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. Not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. But he is not gazing—only thinking.

A thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. A back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat's bow is against the bank.

He steps ashore, ties the painter to a withy, and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him.

Dark as is now the night, he has no difficulty in finding it. He has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. There are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. But he needs not their guidance. As a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of his master, so he, with memories quickened by affection makes his way to the place where repose the remains of Mary Morgan.

Standing over her grave, he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. Then, becoming calmer, he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. It is the Lord's—he knows no other. Enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his over-charged heart.

Feeling better, he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him—a remembrance—"The flower of Love-lies-bleeding."

Is it growing? Not the flower, but the plant. He knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. But the latter—is it still alive and flourishing? In the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch.

Once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. He finds the spot, but not the plant. It is gone! Nothing left of it—not a remnant! A sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him!

In strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable.

"It's that d—d rascal, Dick Dempsey, as ha' done it. Can't ha' been anybody else. An' if I can but get proof o't, I'll make him repent o' the despicable trick. I will, by the livin' G——!"

Thus angrily soliloquizing, he strides back to his skiff, and, getting in, rows off. But more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain—threats against Coracle Dick.