On returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty—a little matter to be settled with his mother. Not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. If questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? He dislikes telling her another lie. It came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while.

On reflection, he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it. He has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her—unsuccessfully, as he now knows.

While still undetermined, a circumstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. In his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. During one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the doorstep. Her attitude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. Her words declare the same.

"Why, Jack!" she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, "ye bean't a comin' from the Ferry that way?"

The interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. No use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly,—

"Well, mother, to speak the truth, I ha'nt been to the Ferry at all. An' I must ask you to forgie me for practisin' a trifle o' deception on ye—that 'bout the Mary wantin' repairs."

"I suspected it, lad; an' that it wor the tother Mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi' her. Since you've spoke repentful, an' confessed, I ain't agoin' to worrit ye about it. I'm glad the boat be all right, as I ha' got good news for you."

"What?" he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off.

"Well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin' but that somebody might be wantin' to hire ye any minnit. There's been one arready."

"Who? Not the Captain?"

"No, not him. But a grand livery chap; footman or coachman—I ain't sure which—only that he came frae a Squire Powell's, 'bout a mile back."

"Oh! I know Squire Powell—him o' New Hall, I suppose it be. What did the sarvint say?"

"That if you wasn't engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi' him, for a row down the river."

"How far did the man say? If they be bound to Chepstow, or even but Tintern, I don't think I could go—unless they start Monday mornin'. I'm 'gaged to the Captain for Thursday, ye know; an' if I went the long trip, there'd be all the bother o' gettin' the boat back—an' bare time."

"Monday! Why it's the morrow they want ye."

"Sunday! That's queerish, too. Squire Powell's family be a sort o' strict religious, I've heerd."

"That's just it. The livery chap sayed it be a church they're goin' to; some curious kind o' old worshippin' place, that lie in a bend o' the river, where carriages ha' difficulty in gettin' to it."

"I think I know the one, an' can take them there well enough. What answer did you gie to the man?"

"That ye could take 'em, an' would. I know'd you hadn't any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church, wouldn't mind its bein' Sunday."

"Sartinly not. Why should I?" asks Jack, who is anything but a Sabbatarian. "Where do they weesh the boat to be took? Or am I to wait for 'em here?"

"Yes; the man spoke o' them comin' here, an' at a very early hour. Six o'clock. He sayed the clergyman be a friend o' the family, an' they're to ha' their breakfasts wi' him, afore goin' to church."

"All right! I'll be ready for 'em, come's as early as they may."

"In that case, my son, ye' better get to your bed at once. Ye've had a hard day o' it, and need rest. Should ye like take a drop o' somethin' 'fores you lie down?"

"Well, mother, I don't mind. Just a glass o' your elderberry."

She opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine—home made, and by her own hands.

Quaffing it, he observes,—

"It be the best stuff that I know of to put spirit into a man, an' makes him feel cheery. I've heerd the Captain hisself say it beats their Spanish Port all to pieces."

Though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman, as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for elderberry wine, made in the correct way, is superior to that of Oporto. Curious scientific fact, I believe not generally known, that the soil where grows the Sambucus is that most favourable to the growth of the grape.

Without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his glass, and bidding his mother good-night, retires to his sleeping room.

Getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of Mary Morgan, and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as sweetly to dream of her.

There is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. Up he instantly is, and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating habiliments, but a suit worn only on Sundays and holidays.

The mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived.

Hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young Mr. Powell, his pretty sister, and two others—a lady and gentleman, also young.

Soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. The footman goes with them—the Mary having seats for six.

Rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves, gaily now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day than Sunday. But their boatman is merry also with memories of the preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their conversation, he likes listening to it. Above all, he is pleased with the appearance of Miss Powell, a very beautiful girl, and takes note of the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. Jack is rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own first approaches to Mary Morgan.

His eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing Abergann. Out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. It is not yet seven o'clock, but the Morgans are early-risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to Matins, and possibly Confession at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel. He dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice.

Pulling on down, he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. For just below Abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices; but farther on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow-lands of Llangorren.

Before turning the bend, where Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar.

"What is it, Wingate?" asks young Powell, observing his strange behaviour. "Oh! a waif—that plank floating yonder! I suppose you'd like to pick it up! But remember! it's Sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy."

Little think the four who smiled at this remark—five with the footman—what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them.

Nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the Rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river—hangs heavy on his heart as lead!

Returning, he looks out for the piece of timber, but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman.

Kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat's dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to New Hall.

Impatient are they to be home. Far more—for a different reason—the waterman, who but stays to tie the boat's painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. The plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart.

Not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees.

He does not wait for her to speak; but asks excitedly:—

"What's the matter, mother?"

The question is mechanical—he almost anticipates the answer, or its nature.

"Oh, my son, my son! As I told ye. It was the canwyll corph!"