Mrs. Wingate is again growing impatient at her son's continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. The Dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. Jack has often made the return trip to Rugg's in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. How is the odd time being spent by him?

Her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. For the moon having gone down, it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. The Wye is not a smooth swan-pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims—strong men as women. And her son is upon it!

"Where?" she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. He may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back.

While thus conjecturing, a tinge of sadness steals over the widow's thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way—on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch.

"Poor lad!" she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; "he hain't no need now deceivin' his old mother that way. I only wish he had."

"How black that sky do look!" she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; "an' threatenin' storm, if I bean't mistook. Lucky Jack ha' intimate acquaintance wi' the river 'tween here and Rugg's—if he hain't goed farther. What a blessin' the boy don't gi'e way to drink, an's otherways careful! Well, I s'pose there an't need for me feelin' uneasy. For all, I don't like his bein' so late. Mercy me! nigh on the stroke o' eleven? Ha! What's that? Him, I hope."

She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which, fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner, she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber—the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the Mary, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs. Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full—in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed—a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff.

Met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods, and together they go in, when he is questioned as to the cause of delay.

"Whatever ha' kep' ye, Jack? Ye've been a wonderful long time goin' up to the ferry an' back!"

"The ferry! I went far beyond, up to the footpath over Squire Powell's meadow. There I set Captain out."

"Oh! that be it."

His answer being satisfactory, he is not further interrogated, for she has become busied with an earthen-ware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of "Horniman's" just brought home—one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot—the orthodox quantity. It is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the Captain, and Mrs. Wingate would not consider supper, as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating.

The pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon "mashed"; and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against Jack's arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick.

Occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son's countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light, nor till she is handing the cup across to him. Then, the fresh-lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. Not the sad, melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. That has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received!

"Whatever be the matter wi' ye, Jack?" she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. "There ha' something happened?"

"Oh! nothin' much, mother."

"Nothin' much! Then why be ye looking so black?"

"What makes you think I'm lookin' that way?"

"How can I help thinkin' it? Why, lad, your brow be clouded, same's the sky outside. Come now, tell the truth! Bean't there somethin' amiss?"

"Well, mother, since you axe me that way, I will tell the truth. Somethin' be amiss; or I ought better say, missin'."

"Missin'! Be't anybody ha' stoled the things out o' the boat? The balin' pan, or that bit o' cushion in the stern?"

"No, it ain't; no trifle o' that kind, nor anythin' stealed eyther. 'Stead, a thing as ha' been destroyed."

"What thing?"

"The flower—the plant."

"Flower! plant!"

"Yes; the Love-lies-bleedin' I set on Mary's grave the night after she wor laid in it. Ye remember my tellin' you, mother?"

"Yes—yes; I do."

"Well, it ain't there now."

"Ye ha' been into the chapel buryin' groun', then?"

"I have."

"But what made ye go there, Jack?"

"Well, mother, passin' the place, I took a notion to go in—a sort o' sudden inclinashun I couldn't resist. I thought that kneelin' beside her grave, an' sayin' a prayer, might do somethin' to left the weight off o' my heart. It would ha' done that, no doubt, but for findin' the flower wan't there. Fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till I discovered it wor gone."

"But how gone? Ha' the thing been cut off, or pulled up?"

"Clear plucked out by the roots. Not a vestige o' it left!"

"Maybe 'twer the sheep or goats. They often get into a graveyard; and if I bean't mistook, I've seen some in that o' the ferry chapel. They may have ate it up!"

The idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. Not long, however, only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. A sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more.

"No, mother!" he at length rejoins; "it han't been done by eyther; but by a human hand—I ought better to say the claw o' a human tiger. No, not tiger; more o' a stinkin' cat!"

"Ye suspect somebody, then?"

"Suspect! I'm sure, as one can be without seein', that bit o' desecrashun ha' been the work o' Dick Dempsey. But I mean plantin' another in its place, an' watchin' it too. If he pluck it up, an' I know it, they'll need dig another grave in the Rogue's Ferry buryin' groun'—that for receivin' as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else, the d——d scoundrel!"

"Dear Jack! don't let your passion get the better o' ye, to speak so sinfully. Richard Dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the Lord will deal wi' him in His own way, an' sure punish him. So leave him to the Lord. After all, what do it matter—only a bit o' weed?"

"Weed! Mother, you mistake. That weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin' my heart to Mary's. Settin' it in the sod o' her grave gied me a comfort I can't describe to ye. An' now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. In the spring I hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o' her love as ha' been blighted, an', like it, lies bleedin'. But—well, it seems as I can't do nothin' for her now she's dead, as I warn't able while she wor livin'."

He covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks.

"Oh, my son! don't take on so. Think that she be happy now—in heaven. Sure she is, from all I ha' heerd o' her."

"Yes, mother," he earnestly affirms, "she is. If ever woman went to the good place, she ha' goed there."

"Well, that ought to comfort ye."

"It do some. But to think of havin' lost her for good—never again to look at her sweet face. Oh! that be dreadful!"

"Sure it be. But think also that ye an't the only one as ha' to suffer. Nobody escape affliction o' that sort, some time or the other. It's the lot o' all—rich folks as well as we poor ones. Look at the Captain there! He be sufferin' like yourself. Poor man! I pity him, too."

"So do I, mother. An' I ought, so well understandin' how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. I seed it the day—several times noticed tears in his eyes when we wor talkin' about things that reminded him o' Miss Wynn. When a soldier—a grand fightin' soldier as he ha' been—gies way to weepin', the sorrow must be strong an' deep. No doubt he be 'most heart-broke, same's myself."

"But that an't right, Jack. It isn't intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a' been as are lost to us. Besides, it be sinful."

"Well, mother, I'll try to think more cheerful, submittin' to the will o' Heaven."

"Ah! There's a good lad! That's the way; an' be assured Heaven won't forsake, but comfort ye yet. Now, let's not say any more about it. You an't eating your supper!"

"I han't no great appetite after all."

"Never mind; ye must eat, and the tea 'll cheer ye. Hand me your cup, an' let me fill it again."

He passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically.

"It be very good tea," she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. "But I've something else for you that's better, before you go to bed."

"Ye take too much care o' me, mother."

"Nonsense, Jack. Ye've had a hard day's work o't. But ye hain't told me what the Captain tooked ye out for, nor where he went down the river. How far?"

"Only as far as Llangorren Court."

"But there be new people there now, ye sayed?"

"Yes; the Murdocks. Bad lot, both man an' wife, though he wor the cousin o' the good young lady as be gone."

"Sure, then, the Captain han't been to visit them?"

"No, not likely. He an't the kind to consort wi' such as they, for all o' their bein' big folks now."

"But there were other ladies livin' at Llangorren. What ha' become o' they?"

"They ha' gone to another house somewhere down the river—a smaller one, it's sayed. The old lady as wor Miss Wynn's aunt ha' money o' her own, and the other be livin' 'long wi' her. For the rest there's been a clean out—all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep' bein' a French girl who wor lady's-maid to the old mistress—that's the aunt. She's now the same to the new one, who be French, like herself."

"Where ha' ye heerd all this, Jack?"

"From Joseph Preece. I met him up at the Ferry, as I wor comin' away from the shop."

"He's out too, then?" asks Mrs. Wingate, who has of late come to know him.

"Yes; same's the others."

"Where be the poor man abidin' now?"

"Well, that's odd too. Where do you suppose, mother?"

"How should I know, my son? Where?"

"In the old house where Coracle Dick used to live!"

"What be there so odd in that?"

"Why, because Dick's now in his house; ha' got his place at the Court, an's goin' to be somethin' far grander than ever he wor—head keeper."

"Ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! That be settin' thief to catch thief!"

"Somethin' besides thief, he! A deal worse than that!"

"But," pursues Mrs. Wingate, without reference to the reflection on Coracle's character, "ye han't yet tolt me what the Captain took down the river."

"I an't at liberty to tell any one. Ye understand me, mother?"

"Yes, yes; I do."

"The Captain ha' made me promise to say nothin' o' his doin's; an', to tell truth, I don't know much about them myself. But what I do know, I'm honour bound to keep dark consarnin' it—even wi' you, mother."

She appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation.

"In time," he adds, "I'm like enough to know all o' what he's after. Maybe, the morrow."

"Ye're to see him the morrow, then?"

"Yes; he wants the boat."

"What hour?"

"He didn't say when, only that he might be needin' me all the day. So I may look out for him early—first thing in the mornin'."

"That case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an' ha' a good sleep, so's to start out fresh. First take this. It be the somethin' I promised ye—better than tea."

The something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainly superior to port prepared in the same way.

Quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the Wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. Not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething, frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy—then into it—at length capsized to a sad symphony—the shrieks of a drowning woman!