bring the doctor over in it to papa, and lose no
time."

"What folly of me!" said Howard to
himself, hurrying down the little side path which
wound down to the water. The water was
concealed from it by some furze bushes. He
long after recollected that picture of the fine
little fellow standing at the bow of the boat,
flourishing the light oar. Long after, also, he
recollected the wild start he got when he
reached the edge and saw that the boat seemed
to be empty, and was moving slowly away from
the shore. He could not reach it; he was
quite helpless, and the little boy had not
strength to manage it. "What folly all this
hiding at the bottom of the boat!" for so he
thought he was.

He called out to him frantically, "Come
back. Give up nonsense, pray, dear child, for
your dear father's sake. We shall not be able
to get the boat back without all sorts of
trouble."

He paused, but there was no answer.

He called again. The boat was gliding
further away; and then a sudden chill struck
to his heart. He was near fainting with the
bare idea. He climbed up the bank, not by the
path, struggling up with his hands and feet,
and then he saw that the boat was empty, with
a solemn emptiness that made his heart shrink.
The sight of his eyes seemed to leave him.
Down below him the water was black, and dark,
and deep, and weedy; and though he could not
swim, his impulse was to fling himself down,
cast himself in at all risks, and, if he could not
save, hide himself from the world for ever. But
a happier glimpse of reason came to him,
and gasping, and staggering, he climbed
up the bank yet higher on to the road, and,
shouting, made for the house. There was a
figure actually coming down towards him, sent,
as it seemed, by Heaven. "Oh, Andy, Andy!"
he shrieked. He could do no more, and pointed
back. The faithful retainer understood enough
(he had been "rared" on the Donegal coast).
He was past Howard in a second, and in
another was at the water's edge. A little cap
was floating there, and told him the story and
the spot. The boat was drifting far out, and
seemed a figure of all chance and hope drifting
away also. With a "Holy Mother!" on his
lips, Andy had gone in head-foremost among the
weeds. He had once made one in a life-boat
crew on that Donegal coast. He was sure to
succeed in what he had tried, and he dived, and
searched, and explored, and at last came upon
the little helpless figure, bound up tightly in a
mass of cruel weeds. Andy had now hard work
to set him free. But he did so at last. But
one so young and tender as the child was, and
now so many minutes under the water—there he
was now, on the bank, limp, saturated, and his
soft hair covering his face; and as for life——

Andy had him in his arms in a moment.
Not knowing what he was doing, Edward put
out his hands to help; but Andy shook him off
with a "Stand back!"

"What shall I do?" said Edward, wildly.
"Will he live? Have I killed him? Tell me.
Tell me something to do."

Andy was struggling up the bank with
supernatural strength. "There, run, run round for
the doctor for the bare life, if you care for his
life at all."

In the kitchen, before the great fire, was a
strange and terrified group round their
insensible figure. No one knew what—hot water—
and hot things were the only resource until the
doctor, whom God send quickly, should arrive.
But up-stairs the quick ear of the father had
heard the rustling and rushing; and the half
cry and half whisper. A yet quicker instinct
made him associate this disorder with something
connected with his child. Weak as he was, he
had risen and come out into the hall. He heard
the quick voices— the confusion below—and
rather staggered than walked to the top of the
stairs. At the same moment, he met Mrs.
Winter; her pale face and despair told him
everything.

"Where is he?" he said, in a trembling voice.
"What is all this?"

"Oh, come, come!" said she, bursting into
tears. "You must prepare yourself—the poor,
poor darling—the boat——"

He could not answer her, but stood looking
at her with a fixed stony air, swaying from
side to side as if about to fall.

"No, no; you must not—not that way!"
And she caught him in her arms, and tried to
stop him. But he put her aside, almost roughly,
and went down.

The wretched Edward was the first that met
him, who shrunk away as though he wished the
earth to cover him. Then the miserable father
put aside the group that was humanely striving
to hide what was lying there from him, and fell
forward on the floor beside the helpless body
of his "little man."

CHAPTER VII. AFTER THE WEDDING.

BUT the faithful Andy had great "sinse," as
he called it, and good practical skill for the
common emergencies on that Donegal coast.
"Many and many's the time" a poor fisherman
had been carried ashore in that poor way, and
they had got him round. And here now, as he
was working himself and making them all work,
rubbing, fomenting and warming, the sounds of
wheels came most gratefully to their ears, and
made Andy break out into a hearty "Glory be
to God for all his mercies!" In another
moment the doctor was stamping down the stairs,
swiftly as if on life or death; and "Glory be to
God," as Andy would again say, another doctor
was following. They seemed to know what they
had come for, though there was no one up-stairs
to tell them, and no messenger could have
reached them.

"Clear away, clear away," said the doctors.
"Done very well so far—work on, my lads—and
you women, have plenty of everything warm."
They then examined the little figure before