ments, took off their coats,
wrapped him carefully about, set him in the stern of his boat, and,
jumping in themselves, pushed off and rowed rapidly homewards.

Their patient endeavoured to express his thanks, but was gravely
desired not to mention it. For ten minutes or so the Twins rowed in
silence, at the end of this time Paul suddenly dropped the bow oar;
then, leaning forward, touched his brother on the shoulder and
whispered one word--

"Shenachrum."

"Or Samson," said Peter.

"I think poorly o' Samson."

"Wi' hes hair on?"

"Wi' or wi'out, I don't lay no store by Samson."

"Very well, then--Shenachrum."

The rowing was resumed, and Mr. Fogo left to speculate on these dark
sayings. But as the boat drew near the column of blue smoke that,
rising from the hazels on the left bank, marked the whereabouts of
the Dearloves' cottage, he grew aware of a picture that, perhaps by
mere charm of composition, set his pulse extravagantly beating.

At the gate above the low cliff, her frock of pink print distinct
against the hazels, stood Tamsin Dearlove, and looked up the river.

She was bare-headed; and the level rays of evening powdered her dark
tresses with gold, and touched the trees behind into bronze.
One hand shielded her eyes; the other rested on the half-open gate,
and swayed it softly to and fro upon its hinge. As she stood thus,
some happy touch of opportunity, some trick of circumstance or
grouping, must, I think, have helped Mr. Fogo to a conclusion he had
been seeking for weeks. It is certain that though he has since had
abundant opportunities of studying Tamsin, and noting that untaught
grace of body in which many still find the secret of her charm, to
his last day she will always be for him the woman who stood, this
summer evening, beside the gate and looked up the river.

And yet, as the boat drew near, the pleasantest feature in the
picture was the smile with which she welcomed her brothers, though it
contained some wonder to see them in Mr. Fogo's boat, and gave place
to quick alarm as she remarked the extreme blueness of that
gentleman's nose and the extreme pallor of his other features.

"Tamsin, my dear, es the cloth laid?"

"Yes, Peter, and the kettle ready to boil."

"We was thinkin' as Shenachrum would be suitin' Mr. Fogo better.
He've met wi' an accident."

"Again?" There was something of disdain in her eyes as she curtseyed
to him, but it softened immediately. "You're kindly