to the door.

"You're a very obstinate woman," he said.

And with this he unmoored his boat and rowed resolutely homewards.
A strong wind came piping down on the back of a strong tide, and
Master Simon arched his shoulders against it.

"Married man or mariner!" it piped, as he rounded the first bend.

"I know my own mind, I believe," said Master Simon to himself.
"There's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it; and for
salmon, 'Flowing Source' will beat Christchurch any day, I've always
maintained."

"Married man or mariner!" piped the wind in the words of Ann the
cook.

Master Simon pulled his left paddle hard and rounded the second bend.

"Married man or mar--"

Crash!

His heels flew up and his head struck the bottom-boards. Then, in a
moment, the boat was gone, and a rush of water sang in his ears and
choked him. He saw a black shadow overhanging, and clutched at it.

Mistress Prudence stood in her doorway on the quay, as Master Simon
had left her. In the room above, the waitress blew out her candle,
drew up the blind, and opened her window to the moonlight.

"Selina!" the mistress called.

Selina thrust out her head.

"What's that coming down the river?"

A black, unshapely mass was moving swiftly down towards the quay.

"I think 'tis a haystack," Selina whispered, and then, "Lord save us
all, there's a man on it!"

"A man?" cried the widow, shrilly. "What man?"

A voice answered the question, calling for help out of the river--a
voice that she knew.

"What is it?" she called back.

"I think," quavered Master Simon, "I think 'tis the roof o' 'Flowing
Source'!"

Mistress Prudence ran down the quay steps, cast off the first boat
that lay handy, and pulled towards the dark mass sweeping seaward.
As it crossed ahead of her bows, she dropped the paddles, ran to the
painter, and flung it forward with all her might.

The "Pandora's Box" Inn stands on Ponteglos Quay to this day. And
all that is left of "Flowing Source" hangs on the wall of its best
parlour--four dark oak timbers forming a frame around a portrait, the
portrait of a woman of middle age and comfortable countenance.
In the right-hand top corner of the picture, in letters of faded
gold, runs the legend--VXOR BONA INSTAR NAVIS.

EXPERIMENTS.

I.--A YOUNG MAN'S DIARY.

_Monday, Sept. 7th_, 189-. I am one year old to-day.

I imagine that most people regard their first birthday as something
of an event;