“Your ’usband,” repeated the girl, clapping her hands together in what Jinny thought a very odd and uncalled-for way.  “Your ’usband!”

Jinny felt very uncomfortable; the girl’s demeanour was so strange that she began to think she had been drinking.  Hastily collecting John’s socks and boots she scrambled to her feet.

“He’s gone cocklin’, has he?” inquired Sally, fixing those queer blue eyes of hers on the wife’s face with an extraordinary expression; “an’ you’re takkin’ care o’s shoon till he cooms back?  Ha! ha!—­happen he’ll ne’er coom back.”

Jinny turned very red and walked indignantly away; most certainly the girl was either mad or drunk.  “Happen he’ll ne’er coom back,” indeed!  Such impudence!  Jinny did not quite like being left alone with her in that solitary place, and partly on this account, partly to disprove her ridiculous assertion, bent her steps towards the shore, calling loudly to her husband to return.

But a fresh breeze was blowing, and the waves were leaping shoreward with unusual haste and energy; her voice did not reach him, and he wandered still further away from her, stooping ever and anon to examine the sand.  He had crossed the river some time before, and was now pacing the opposite shore.  The muddy waters of this little tidal river had been shallow enough for him to wade through not half-an-hour previously, but were now rising rapidly.  He would find his return difficult if not dangerous, and the difficulty and danger were increasing every moment.  When Jinny realised this, which she did suddenly, she forgot all about her silk dress and her new boots, and ran frantically towards the water’s edge, screaming with all her might; and at last John heard, and began to walk placidly towards the spot where he had originally crossed.  The mud banks were out of sight now, and a broad belt of water was spreading rapidly on the other side.  It was advancing rapidly also at his rear; soon the stretch of shore, half sand, half mud, on which he stood, would be entirely submerged.

“John!  John! coom ower at once!” screamed Jinny, as he paused, looking about him.

“I’m in a fix,” he called out.  The breeze, which had baffled her endeavours to make herself heard, bore, nevertheless, his words to her.  She beckoned and gesticulated, continuing her useless entreaties the while.  John laid down his handkerchief full of cockles and began to roll up his trousers higher.  Jinny fairly danced with impatience.  He made a step or two forward—­the water was up to his knees; he walked on, plunging deeper at every step.

Suddenly Jinny uttered an even wilder and more piercing scream—­John had disappeared from her sight, and, for a moment, the only trace of him which was evident was his hat rolling and tossing on the brown wavelets.  But, before she had time to reiterate the anguished cry, he reappeared, pale and drenched, on the opposite bank.

“Run lass,” he cried, “run quick an’ fetch a rope, else I’ll be drowned.  I can’t get across the river—­the water’s nigh ower my head as ‘tis, an’ my feet keep sinkin’ into the mud.”