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Part 3, Chapter XV
Arthur’s Story

 
“I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need – by sun and candle-light.”
 

Part 3, Chapter XVI
Mysie

“Oh, happy spirit, wisely gay!”

“What are you doing, Mysie?” said Florence Venning, as she came one afternoon into the Redhurst drawing-room.

“I am sewing a button on Arthur’s glove,” returned Mysie, who was sitting by herself on a low chair in the window with a smart little work-basket by her side. “Do you know, Floss, Hugh is coming back to-night? Aunt Lily had a line from him from Paris.”

“Dear me! And do you want to get the button sewn on before he comes?”

Mysie shook her head, smiling, while Flossy went on: “Seriously, Mysie, aren’t you in a great fright?”

“No!” answered Mysie, “I cannot see why I should be in a fright. You know, Flossy, I have never been at all afraid of Hugh. I know he always does what he thinks right. And he knows what is right, too.”

“Well, but suppose he says you are too young?”

“But I shall explain to him,” said Mysie, “that I am not young. Now, don’t laugh, Flossy; but I can’t help feeling that when people are so very sure of themselves as I am they must be able to make others believe in them.”

“That’s a profound remark,” said Flossy.

“I’m not at all changeable,” said Mysie, “and I know I shall be able to make Hugh understand that I am quite in earnest.” There was a peculiar intensity in her quiet voice; and as she lifted up her eyes, clear and serene, Flossy felt that they would have convinced her of anything.

“It will be very unromantic if you don’t get anything to try your constancy,” said Flossy, teasingly.

“Well, one can be very happy without romance,” said Mysie, laughing. “Romance generally means something rather uncomfortable.”

“Well,” said Flossy, in her full, dear tones, “so does love – generally. I always observe that when a girl can’t do her lessons, or can’t eat her dinner, and is dismal and rather a bore, Mary has a confidence from home about her. And if one happens to see the man he’s generally such a creature. Now, I can imagine regarding Saint Ambrose – ”

“Flossy!”

“Well, of course, I mean some one like him. I think my ideal is a mixture of intellect and strong common-sense, something like King Alfred. And I greatly admire the strength of Luther and Hampden; only those people are so often on the wrong side. But you see, Mysie, I shall never meet the great man of the age, and I shall never care for anyone unless he is wiser, cleverer, and better than I am myself!”

“That would be so difficult to find,” said Mysie.

“Mysie, how dare you be so sarcastic!” cried Flossy, with a great, hearty laugh. “But I don’t care; I can do without him, and when he turns up I’ll let you know.”

“Is he to be anything like that man in your old story who never smiled?” said Mysie.

“No, no, that was a very juvenile idea. But, Mysie,” coming nearer and speaking with slight embarrassment, “there is a story and a hero in it. I wonder if you would like him.”

“Oh, do show it to me.”

“Then, you must promise not to tell Arthur. Ah, is Arthur so cool as you are about your cousin?”

“No,” said Mysie, “he says that he should say ‘no’ in Hugh’s place. But,” she concluded quietly, “that is because it is coming so near.”

“And what has become of Arthur now?”

“There’s a cricket-match between Redhurst and Oxley, and Arthur is playing. Will you come down to the ground? Aunt Lily’s there and Frederica; they went to pay a call first.”

Flossy assented, and Mysie went upstairs to put on her hat. She was a girl with a great many quiet little tastes of her own, and her room gave opportunities for the study of them. There was something about her far removed from the ordinary hurry and bustle of modern young-ladyhood. She was noted in the family for always having time for everything. So on her table lay an album and a book of photographs, set in little paintings, and a basket containing pincushions and needle-books of wonderful shapes and capable workmanship, besides other varieties of fancy-work. Mysie dearly loved needlework, and secretly regretted the days when she could have stitched Arthur’s shirts for him. There were flowers, gathered and growing, and quiet, dainty little birds – avadevats and the like – hanging in the window; while on the mantelpiece was almost every little possession of Mysie’s short existence: the China dogs and the China shepherds of her babyhood, the little glass tea-set and the spun-glass boxes of advancing childhood, up to the pots and scent bottles – her schoolfellows’ presents in later years. For Mysie never lost or broke anything, and never grew tired of anything because it was old. She kept her big wax-doll in her wardrobe, and all her old story-books on the shelf in company with Arthur’s birthday present of Tennyson’s poems, and such and so many works of fiction as might be expected on a young lady’s book-shelves whose taste was exceedingly correct and who was able to gratify it. Mysie had, however, two little tastes of her own. She was fond of very sentimental poetry, which she read, copied, and learnt by heart quietly to herself, not feeling at all hurt if Arthur laughed at it or Flossy declared that it lowered her spirits; but, being an exceedingly happy little person, she had somehow a peculiar relish for faded flowers, bygone days, sad hearts, and all such imagery. She also liked all books containing quaint and pregnant sayings of wit or wisdom; read George Herbert and Bacon’s essays; and when asked, as a little girl, which part of the Bible she liked best to read had replied: “The Book of Proverbs: it was so exceedingly true.”

With every possibility of being an idle young lady Mysie was really useful and industrious, good, and pious – in the simplest meaning of that much abused word. She was a far more developed person than her lover, young as she was; and she loved him with all the force of old association, sisterly admiration and anxiety, mingling with the newer and sweeter dependence on his talents and his counsel. She believed in him, but her instinct was to advise him and to take care of him and to think of what was good for him, even while his opinions had unconsciously moulded many of her own; and to please him was her greatest delight.

Carefully she arranged her little hat, with its wild-rose trimming, and settled her pretty summer dress before she rejoined Flossy and started with her for the cricket-field, where several ladies and other spectators were already watching Arthur making runs in a white flannel suit edged with scarlet, which Mysie thought exceedingly becoming.

Mrs Crichton made room for them on a bench beside her. Frederica and Flossy began to compare notes of the runs; while Mysie sat in the bright sun, dreamily contemplating her lover’s prowess. Some of the cricketers came up to speak to them; one of the Oxley curates, in black trousers and a grey shirt, eagerly pointed out to Flossy the performance of a mutual protégé. Mrs Harcourt, the wife of the old rector of Redhurst, made the welcome announcement that she had ordered afternoon tea to be brought into the field. Mysie’s Redhurst Sunday scholars curtseyed and smiled at her from a distance; and the far more elegant damsels of Oxley, who absorbed all Flossy’s unprofessional efforts in the way of teaching, made her gracious bows, and offered her an opportunity of studying how to dress, or not to dress, hair of every shade of black, brown, flaxen, and auburn. A detachment from Oxley Manor, headed by Clarissa and the German governess, appeared at a discreet distance. Mysie became aware that Arthur saw her, and was making his thirtieth run under the inspiring influence of her eyes when a tall shadow fell on the dry, sunny grass, and a well-known voice said, “Well, mother, how are you?”

“My dear Hugh! How you surprised me; we did not expect you till dinner time!”

“I came half-an-hour ago; and finding you were all down here I thought I would follow you.”

“Quite right. How are you, and have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Very well; and I have enjoyed myself exceedingly,” said Hugh.

“Where’s Jem?”

“In London, to-day, I believe, but we did not travel back together. He wanted to see some other places.”

“And Civita Bella was charming? You are sunburnt, Hugh.”

“Civita Bella is a very charming place, with sun enough to burn anyone. How d’ye do, Mysie? I did not see you.”

Mysie put her hand into Hugh’s and felt her courage sink to her toes.

“I’m very well, Hugh, thank you,” she said, in a small voice; and then she perceived that Arthur had caught sight of his cousin, found himself “out,” he hardly knew how, and came over towards them with his face much more crimson than exertion need have made it.

“Well, Arthur, I congratulate you,” said Hugh. “On your degree,” he added, as Arthur started and looked blank.

“Oh, I forgot,” said Arthur, as he turned his back on Hugh and Mysie, in an awkward boyish way, and began to talk vehemently to the two Miss Dickensons, daughters of the Oxley doctor, with whom he had been sometimes accused of flirting; while Hugh turned to receive various greetings. To all this he had looked forward, and his manner and look did him credit, for, as his mother said, “he seemed as if he had never been away.”

Poor Hugh! When miles away from Civita Bella he had come to himself, as it were, after the passion of rage and grief in which he had left the city, he had resolved to cut the past seven weeks out of his life and to let them leave no trace behind. No one knew anything about them but James, who could well be trusted to keep the secret at home; they were utterly apart from all the rest of his life, and they should remain so. All their joy and all their pain should be buried for ever. These few short days should not influence all the rest of his life. What difference could it make to Redhurst and Oxley that a little Italian girl had made a fool of him? He had plenty of interests which remained unaltered, and this thing should be, what James had called it, a foolish holiday incident that was over and done. This resolution, though prompted by resentment, was agreeable to common-sense; and Hugh was not likely to betray himself. He knew that he must suffer a certain amount of pain, and then he supposed it would be over; if not he must bear it. What was there to see here while he waited for the train? A cathedral: he would go and see it.

And a girl offered him a great bouquet of roses and oleanders, such as Violante had put in the china bowl. Hugh turned off with a sharp refusal; but suddenly thought: “What, if after all I was mistaken! If I had waited one moment longer – ” and the torment of that doubt, which yet was not strong enough to prompt any measure for its own satisfaction, haunted him and fretted him as the actual sorrow could not do, for it was a doubt of himself.

He had always been grave, and he was too strong and vigorous for trouble to tell easily on his health; so his appearance struck no one as unnatural, while he answered his mother’s enquiries about the Tollemaches, and described the beauties of Civita Bella – rather proud to find that he could do it so easily. Moreover, the home party had an absorbing interest of their own; and as soon as the match had ended, in the triumph of Redhurst, Mrs Crichton took her son’s arm to walk home with him, and Mysie and Arthur slipped away by a different path through the lanes.

Arthur put out his hand and took hold of Mysie’s, and they walked on for a bit hand in hand – a fashion Mysie favoured, perhaps as reminding her of holiday afternoons, when Arthur’s big-boy companionship had been so flattering and delightful to the little school-girl. The air was scented with meadow-sweet and with hay; the elms, in full leaf, threw heavy shadows across their path; a thrush was singing; the church clock chimed half-past six; everything was full of peaceful beauty. Mysie looked shyly into Arthur’s eyes, and then they both laughed; they were not really afraid or in suspense as to their fate, only Arthur wished that the decisive interview was over. “Suppose, for the sake of supposing,” he said, “that Hugh was really to act the cruel parent and send me away. What should you do, Mysie?”

“I don’t know,” said Mysie, lightly. “If he locked me up I think I should give in to him.”

“Then I should blow my brains out!” said Arthur. “I don’t know why I am talking such nonsense,” he added. “I know there is no reasonable likelihood of any interference; but sometimes, Mysie, it comes over me to think what have I done to deserve, what so few fellows get – my first love – nothing in the way? Everything in my life has gone well with me.”

“We must be very good,” said Mysie, in a low voice.

Arthur half shook his head. He was not given to talk about himself, or even to think much about himself from a critical point of view, but he felt that life had been made uncommonly easy to him, by circumstances, by temperament, and by the lodestar of Mysie’s love; and it, perhaps, proved that he was not spoiled by prosperity; since, with the stirring of the deepest feeling that he had ever known, there came a profound sense of these blessings and an almost exaggerated conviction of the absence of effort by which they had been attained.

“I have done nothing to deserve any of it,” he thought. “My work was pleasant to me. How could I go wrong with her before my eyes?” The kind actions, the ready aid which won much affection, the quick interest in all around him which made him helpful and useful everywhere – what had these ever cost him? More pains, perhaps, and more virtuous effort than he remembered or thought worth mentioning; but it was true that Arthur’s was a gracious nature, so kindly and genial that, though his life had been singularly blameless, he had hardly been conscious of aims above the average.

Mysie cut into the heart of his perplexity.

“I think it would be very ungrateful,” she said, “not to be glad that we are happy. We should be very thankful to God for it, and try to make other people happy, too; and trials are sure to come in this life,” she added, in her sweet, fearless, untried voice.

“You shall have few, my darling, if I can keep them away. But you are right; and it would be strange, indeed, if one were not thankful – for you.”

“The Christian Year says,” said Mysie, in her free, simple way:

 
”‘Thankful for all God takes away,
Humbled by all He gives – ’
 

“That is what you meant, isn’t it?”

Arthur listened, half in admiration of Mysie’s goodness – he thought, as others like him have done, his lady-love so good – and half with the shyness of young manhood of devotional, apart from theological, language.

“Nothing so saintly, I fear, as that,” he said. “But I see what the last part means. What!” – as Mysie started and shrank up to him – “not afraid of cows, still, my little one!”

“N-o,” said Mysie, doubtfully, as half-a-dozen cows and a couple of woolly little calves turned out of a field, noisily and quickly. “No; it is very silly, and I am almost cured; but I did not expect them.”

Arthur put a protecting arm around her, very willing to forgive the fear that made her cling to him.

“Flossy does tease me so about it; but I shall always hate cows and strange dogs and guns,” said Mysie, in whom a sort of physical timidity contrasted strangely with her quiet self-possession in other ways.

“You must not walk by yourself if they frighten you, darling,” said Arthur; “but these are very harmless beasts. Come, here’s the garden-gate – and there’s Hugh. Tastes differ, but a herd of buffaloes would be a trifle; here goes!”

Mysie vanished, and Arthur advanced towards his cousin, into whose ears Mrs Crichton had already poured the whole story.

Hugh had listened, but he was annoyed and unsympathetic.

“Arthur is too young.”

“Oh, my dear Hugh, so much the better. Your dear father was very little older, and I only wish I could see you – ”

“Mysie has a right to a wider out-look.”

“But, my dear, she quite adores him; she always did. And she is the most constant little creature. There cannot be a word against Arthur.”

“Oh, no; he is exceedingly well-conducted,” said Hugh, dryly.

“And what a pity to come between young people! It always does them harm, even where it’s inevitable. Disappointments are very bad things.”

“Most people have to survive them. However, mother, if you are satisfied on Mysie’s behalf, I can have nothing to say. I see Arthur. I’ll get it over at once.”

Hugh crossed the lawn, but had he wished to win Mysie for himself he could hardly have felt a bitterer pang of jealousy than that which came upon him as he looked at Arthur’s gladsome eyes and heard the proud satisfaction in his tones through all their embarrassment.

“I have nothing to say, Hugh, but that we have chosen each other. I think I can make her happy, and I will do my best to be helpful to you, and to place myself in a less unequal position as regards her fortune.”

“As mother consents,” said Hugh, “I cannot have a different opinion; but as regards the Bank, you must know your own mind, and I shall not consent to your taking any place there till you have taken time to consider of it. It is not exciting work nor satisfying, if you are ambitious.”

“I repeat,” said Arthur, “I have chosen my lot in life. I want Mysie, and Oxley, and the Bank, if you’ll have me; and Heaven knows I think myself a lucky fellow!”

“You know,” said Hugh, “by the terms of my father’s will you have the offer, but I should wish you to consider well of it.”

“Oh, I’ll consider,” said Arthur, in rather an off-hand manner; “but why lose time? And you’ll be very busy and want help now Simpson’s getting past his work.”

“Thank you.” Hugh paused, and then said, he hardly knew how ungraciously: “I shall not interfere with you: you can, of course, do as you like. I believe I ought to speak to Mysie; but, of course, you know what she will say.”

Arthur laughed joyously, little knowing how the gay, confident sound smote on Hugh’s ears.

“You’re very good, old fellow,” he said. “Don’t imagine I think my good fortune a matter of course. But I want to hear all your adventures. We have set upon you before you have even had your dinner, which is cruel. How many girls did Jem fall a victim to? Have you brought him home safe?”

“Jem took very good care of himself. But, as you say, it is dinner time. I must see if my things have come.”

“You’ve never wished me good luck! Well, you have assured it to me, which is better.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hugh; “I wish you joy, and certainly would not be the means of interfering with your good fortune.”

Part 3, Chapter XVII
Smooth Waters

 
” – The old June weather,
Blue above lane and wall.”
 

“You are quite sure of your own mind, Mysie?”

“Yes, Hugh. I am quite certain.”

“Because I ought to set before you that you might do much better for yourself. You have seen very few people, and I ought not to let you act upon impulse,” said Hugh, in the driest of voices.

Mysie had been prepared for this appeal; and, though she blushed crimson and kept her eyes on her lap, she replied, not by protestations, but by the arguments which she thought ought to prove convincing. Hugh had called her into the study, a little room looking out on the garden, and more or less appropriated to himself. There was another room which all the young men shared when at home, and where pipes, guns, dogs, and books were to be found in wild confusion; but this was Hugh’s sanctum, where he wrote letters and transacted business and possibly read the highly-respectable volumes that lined its wails. Mysie sat in a great leather chair by the window, with the flickering sun on her bright brown hair and the shadows of the roses on her gay green and white dress.

“I know,” she said modestly, but quite clearly, “that perhaps some one richer than Arthur might – might meet me by-and-by.”

“Exactly,” said Hugh.

“But then, Hugh, you cannot be sure of that, and what would it matter, when – when my mind was made up?”

“If you know your own mind, Mysie.”

“I might not know it if I had only just met him. People often make mistakes then. But – but – ”

“Well,” said Hugh, kindly, as she stammered and stopped, “what is it, Mysie? Don’t be afraid. I only want to know your thoughts exactly.”

“I think,” said poor Mysie, though with much confusion, “that I ought to say them, as you seem to think it is I who have the advantage. I could never give Arthur up, and there will be plenty of time for you to see, as he says he thinks that – that – there must be a year at least. I would promise to tell you if I did change, and I should not mind not being called engaged to him, though he wishes it. I hope you believe me, because I know it depends on that.”

“Yes, Mysie,” said Hugh, “I believe you. You mean to say nothing can change your love for Arthur, no one could over-persuade you, no one could frighten you; you are so sure of it and of him that you don’t care for any outward tie to bind you?”

“Yes,” said Mysie, rather appalled at the emphasis with which this speech was uttered, but holding bravely to her colours; “that is what I mean. For you see, Hugh, we know all about each other so well.”

“Then, Mysie, I shall not consider it necessary to make any opposition.”

Mysie got up and said: “Thank you, Hugh,” and slowly moved away. She thought Hugh would have congratulated her and kissed her, as he had done all her life on set occasions; but he let her go in silence, and, left alone, stood staring into the empty grate with bitter thoughts in his heart. Here was this girl had won her way by her own fearless confidence, her absolute trust in herself and her lover. How fortune smiled on the wishes of this pair! How sure might Arthur be of his happy future! He turned restlessly round and, looking out of the window, saw Mysie run down the garden-path with flying feet, saw Arthur spring up from the grass, meet her, and draw her away into the shrubbery; heard the low murmur of their voices, and the gay, careless laughter, called forth by the reaction from Mysie’s anxiety and suspense. It was but a fortnight since he, too, had laughed idly and carelessly over Violante’s flowers; but a fortnight since he, too, had thought himself happy in his love. But he had lost his faith in the poor child who was all unknown and unvouched for, and she had had no power to stand up for herself. The difference between this perfectly simple, straightforward engagement and the foolish, impossible dream from which he told himself that it was well to wake struck him forcibly. It was the contrast between good and ill fortune, between success and failure. There were times when Hugh felt utterly miserable, and when the profound silence in which his short, wild love-story was buried was intolerable to him – thankful as he was for it in cooler moments; times when he longed so to hear Violante’s name that he felt the wildest desire to tell his foolish secret. It is needless to say that he never did tell it, not being of a confiding nature; but concealment is nearly as fatal, in many cases, to the temper as to the complexion; and poor Hugh was unaccountably and unromantically cross. Why, when Arthur was teaching his Skye terrier to jump over a stick, did Hugh feel that if that little beast jumped over at exactly the same height once more he must wring its neck? Why, when his mother complained that the rabbits had eaten her carnations, did he positively assert that no mortal rabbit could possibly have come near them. And was it not unworthy of him to feel so exceedingly irritated when Arthur produced the corpse of the offender, having shot it from his bedroom window the next morning in the act of eating the one remaining shoot? Why should he oppose the Mayor of Oxley on the subject of gas and the Rector of Redhurst about the new schools? He advocated neither physical nor mental darkness, and when he became aware that he was resting his objections on the colour of the bricks proposed to be used in the building he pulled himself up and gave in with a good grace. But, surely, anyone with ordinary self-control would not allow these trifles to irritate him. Hugh sometimes felt a dim suspicion that, though he had a very good self on the whole, controlling it was not his strong point. Moreover, Mrs Crichton had made the engagement an occasion for a great deal of country summer gaiety, and Hugh was persecuted by croquet and archery-parties, picnics and dances. He was usually very particular in what he called “doing his duty to society;” but now these things were intolerable to him; and, worst of all, perhaps, was the sunshiny, peaceful mirth of the happy love-story that was working itself out beside him. Arthur shrewdly suspected that there was something amiss with his cousin; but they were not on terms for him to invite a confidence, and he contented himself with the idea of consulting Jem, and by taking on himself, with unobtrusive good-nature, all the trouble of the many small arrangements that devolve on the young men of a country house in times of unusual gaiety, even to entertaining the visitors when Hugh might have been free from business and when a stroll with Mysie would have been far preferable to himself.

“Hugh doesn’t like it,” he would say; “and I think he’s rather out of sorts; so we mustn’t bother him.”

Hugh rewarded him by wondering how he could care for such trifles, and by somewhat despising the comfortable, unsentimental terms of the two lovers, even while he envied them only too bitterly.

Doubtless they were enviable; for in between-times many a sweet morsel fell to their lot, and one shining hour rested in Arthur’s memory in the days to come as the typical instance of the warm home-like sunshine, the everyday happiness, of the summer when he was engaged to Mysie.

Once upon a time – there seems no fitter beginning – on a still, hot summer afternoon, Arthur and Mysie went down the new-mown meadows to the water-side. They were going in a boat down the canal to where it joined the river at a place called Fordham Beeches, where Frederica and Flossy Venning were to meet them, having walked through the woods.

Oxley canal was but a canal. Its waters sparkled over no pebbles, revealed no pellucid depths; but to-day its dull and sluggish face reflected the “blue, unclouded weather,” and the slow oars splashed up living light. The speedwells were hardly faded, the pink bindweed blossomed all over its grassy edges. The flat meadows were green as emerald. Pollard willows hung over one side, and brightly-painted barges were tugged along by the towing-path on the other.

Arthur rowed slowly, and Mysie sat, in her big straw hat, facing him; and they talked of the time when they should live together in the old red-brick Bank House, in Oxley, unless Hugh married; and then there were the pretty little villas on the Redhurst road. They talked of ways and means, pounds, shillings, and pence; and laid their plans, and settled what they would and what they would not do; and how, in a year’s time, Hugh would be satisfied of Arthur’s capacity and steadiness, and would admit him to that share in the Bank proposed for him by his father. And, as they talked, they passed along the back of Redhurst village and past the turnip-fields, where the little partridges were beginning to run and flutter, and Hugh’s bit of copse, where little brown rabbits were already taking their evening airing.

“Too many by half,” said Arthur, and Mysie declared that he was cruel, as their course was stopped by Redhurst lock, rendered necessary by the more broken ground.

The lock-keeper’s little cottage, in a bower of vines, stood on one side; and Mysie blushed as she sat in the boat, for the men smiled as they greeted Arthur and responded to his remark on the rabbits; and the lock-keeper’s daughter – a tall girl, with fair hair flying in the sun – laughed as she curtseyed and called her little sister to “look at Miss Mysie.”

“Alice Wood sees us,” whispered Mysie.

“We can see Alice Wood,” said Arthur, as the nursery-gardener’s smart seedsman strolled by with a parcel, and whispered to the girl, who turned off giggling, shy of the young lady, who gave her a half-sympathetic smile as the boat slowly sank down – down into the cool, damp shadow – down below the steep, dank sides, below the sparkling water – till the great doors groaned back and they shot out into light and sunshine and life, again.

Mysie drew a long breath.

“I am glad to get out,” she said. “It seems like the bottom of the sea.”

Arthur laughed.

“I am afraid we shouldn’t make many scientific discoveries here. It would be hardly like dredging the deep sea-water.”

“Do you know,” said Mysie, “I always think of the bottom of the sea as if it was like Andersen’s Little Mermaid, with beautiful shells and strange creatures and coloured sea-weeds covering the poor drowned people like the leaves did the children in the wood?”

”‘Should toss with tangle and with shells,’” quoted Arthur. “I don’t think one associates the idea of rest with drowning.”

“Oh,” said Mysie, “I did, after I read that story. It was my great favourite.”

“You must show it to me. But I say, my darling, look out! That old swan wants your blue ribbons.”

The great majestic swan, with white ruffled plumes and fierce writhes of his long neck, bore down fiercely on them.

“Now, he has come down the river from Redhurst,” said Mysie. “Row faster, Arthur; he is horribly fierce, and, besides, the others will be tired of waiting.”

“Never mind them,” said Arthur, “we shall be in the river in a moment, and then we’re close on Fordham Beeches.”

So they sped on their way to where the canal joined the bed of the river, and here the banks were broken and picturesque; great yellow flags, and white star-like lilies grew in the shallow water; and now the great grey boles of Fordham Beeches appeared rising from their carpet of bright brown leaves.

“There are the girls,” said Mysie, waving her hand.

Arthur rested on his oars and tilted his hat back, with a sudden twinkle of consternation in his merry grey eyes: