I shuddered to see him wade knee-deep in the
stream--but he succeeded. Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore. The
younger tried desperately to save his boat, but it was too late.
Already the "water-boar" had clutched it--the rope broke like a
gossamer-thread--the trim, white sail was dragged down--rose up once,
broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream--then
disappeared.

"So it's all over with her, poor thing!"

"Who cares?--We might have lost our lives," sharply said the other, an
older and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed in mourning, to whom life
did not seem a particularly pleasant thing, though he appeared to value
it so highly.

They both scrambled up the Mythe, without noticing John Halifax: then
the elder turned.

"But who pulled us ashore? Was it you, my young friend?"

John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, "I suppose so."

"Indeed, we owe you much."

"Not more than a crown will pay," said young Brithwood, gruffly; "I
know him, Cousin March. He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan-yard."

"Nonsense!" cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at the boy with a
kindly, even half-sad air. "Impossible! Young man, will you tell me
to whom I am so much obliged?"

"My name is John Halifax."

"Yes; but WHAT are you?"

"What he said. Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough: I work in the
tan-yard."

"Oh!" Mr. March turned away with a resumption of dignity, though
evidently both surprised and disappointed. Young Brithwood laughed.

"I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad!" eyeing John over, "you've been out
at grass, and changed your coat for the better: but you're certainly
the same lad that my curricle nearly ran over one day; you were driving
a cart of skins--pah! I remember."

"So do I," said John, fiercely; but when the youth's insolent laughter
broke out again he controlled himself. The laughter ceased.

"Well, you've done me a good turn for an ill one,
young--what's-your-name, so here's a guinea for you." He threw it
towards him; it fell on the ground, and lay there.

"Nay, nay, Richard," expostulated the sickly gentleman, who, after all,
WAS a gentleman. He stood apparently struggling with conflicting
intentions, and not very easy in his mind. "My good fellow," he said
at last, in a constrained voice, "I won't forget your bravery. If I
could do anything for you--and meanwhile if a trifle like this"--and he
slipped something into John's hand.

John returned it wi