ds, and fawning against their legs.

The dog's presence put new courage into Tilda, she scarcely knew why,
and henceforth she followed more confidently. With a stumble or two,
but no serious mishap, they groped their way down the coombe, and coming
to the ledge, saw the beach spread at their feet in the moonlight and
out on the water the dark boat heaving gently, a little beyond the edge
of the waves' ripple. The tide had receded since their last visit, and
Arthur Miles knew nothing about tides. But he had discovered the trick
of the boat's moorings. The farm-men, returning from their pursuit of
the stag, had dropped a small anchor attached to a shore-line, by which
at high-water they could draw her in and thus save themselves the
present labour of hauling her up the steep beach. But the weather being
fair, they had suffered high-water to pass, and let her ride out the
night as she lay.

Arthur Miles knew the bush to which the shore-end of the line was
attached, and scrambling down beside the fall, found it easily and
untied it. As a fact (of which, however, he was quite unaware), he had
very little time to lose. In another twenty minutes the boat's keel
would have taken ground immovably. He ran down the beach, coiling the
slack of the line as he went; tugged at the anchor, which yielded
readily; found it; and almost at the same moment heard the boat's nose
grate softly on the pebbles. The beach shelved steeply, and her stern
lay well afloat; nor was there any run of sea to baffle him by throwing
her broadside-on to the stones. He hurried Tilda aboard.
She clambered over the thwarts to the stern-sheets, 'Dolph sprang after
her, and then with the lightest push the boy had her afloat--so easily
indeed that she had almost slid away, leaving him; but he just managed
to clutch the gunwale close by the stem and to scramble after.

He seized an oar at once and thrust off. Next came the difficult job of
working her round and pointing her nose for the sea. Of rowing he knew
nothing at all, nor could Tilda help him. He could but lift the clumsy
oar, and ply it with the little skill he had learnt on the voyage down
Avon, as one plies a canoe-paddle. Even to do this he was forced to
stand erect in the stern-sheets: if he sat, the awkward pole would
over-weight his strength completely. But the boy had a native sense of
watermanship, and no fear at all; and the boat, being a stable old tub,
while taxing all his effor