vileged in speech.

But deep within him Gregory was saying, "What a blessing that I forgot
to pay the ferry!"

When he got outside he said to his host, "Is there such a place
hereabouts as the Rhonefoot?"

"Why, yes, there is," said Laird Cunningham of Barr. "But why do you
ask? I thought a Sheriff would know everything without asking--even an
ornamental one on his way to the Premiership."

"Oh, I heard the name," said Gregory. "It struck me as a curious one."

So that evening there came over the river from the Waterfoot of the
Rhone the sound of a voice calling. Grace Allen sat thoughtfully looking
out of the rose-hung window of the boathouse. Her face was an oval of
perfect curve, crowned with a mass of light brown hair, in which were
red lights when the sun shone directly upon it. Her skin was clear, pale
as ivory, and even exertion hardly brought the latent under-flush of red
to the surface.

"There's somebody at the waterfit. Gang, lassie, an' dinna be lettin'
them aff withoot their siller this time!" said her aunt Barbara from
her bed. Annie Allen was accustomed to say nothing, and she did it now.

The boat to the Rhonefoot was seldom needed, and the oars were not kept
in it. They leaned against the end of the cottage, and Grace Allen took
them on her shoulder as she went down. She carried them as easily as
another girl might carry a parasol.

Again there came the cry from the Rhonefoot, echoing joyously across the
river.

Standing well back in the boat, so as to throw up the bow, she pushed
off. The water was deep where the boat lay, and it had been drawn half
up on the bank. Where Grace dipped her oars into the silent water, the
pool was so black that the blade of the oar was lost in the gloom before
it got half-way down. Above there was a light wind moaning and rustling
in the trees, but it did not stir even a ripple on the dark surface of
the pool where the Black Water of Dee meets the brighter Ken.

Grace bent to her oars with a springing _verve_ and force which made the
tubby little boat draw towards the shore, the whispering lapse of water
gliding under its sides all the while. Three lines of wake were marked
behind--a vague white turbulence in the middle and two lines of bubbles
on either side where the oars had dipped, which flashed a moment and
then winked themselves out.

When she reached the Waterfoot, and the boat touched the shore, Grace
Allen looked up to see Gregory Jeffray standing al