She clambered on, and soon was flying down the slope on the farther side.  How long she ran she could not tell—­it seemed to her a century since she had left the shore behind.  Her brain reeled, her heart throbbed to suffocation—­the terrible thought was ever present to her mind:  “At this moment perhaps he is drowning—­I may find him dead when I go back.”  Her very desperation lent her speed, and, moreover, fortune favoured her quest, for it was in reality only a very few minutes after her parting with Sally that she came upon a loving couple seated by the road-side.  The man was a fisherman well known to Jinny.  How she explained and what she promised she never quite knew, but, in an inconceivably short space of time they were speeding back together, the man preceding her with long, swinging strides.  There was no time to lose in looking for a rope—­he thought he knew a place where he could get Mr. Dickinson across; if not available, he himself could swim.

But, lo and behold! when they reached the summit of the hill and were about to plunge downwards to the shore, an unlooked-for sight met their eyes.  There, on the hither side of the river stood John, alive and well, though plastered with mud from head to foot, and by his side was Sally, with her drenched raiment clinging to her, and the water dripping from the loosened strands of her long hair.

“Seems soombry else has had the savin’ of him,” cried the fisherman, astonished and perhaps a little disappointed; Mrs. Dickinson had promised such wonderful things.

Jinny, speechless with joy, ran down the slope and flung herself upon her husband.  His face was pale and all astir with emotion.

“Jinny,” he said, when at length she allowed him to speak—­“Jinny, she saved me.”

Jinny turned to Sally.  “Eh, how can I ever thank you,” she cried brokenly.  “You saved my ’usband arter all.  I don’t know how to thank you.”

Sally looked round with a fierce light in her eyes.  “Ye needn’t thank me—­I didn’t save him for you.”

“I’m sure,” said John, in a voice husky with emotion, “I don’t know what to say mysel’—­it is more than I could have expected, that you should risk your life for my sake.”

“’Twasn’t for your sake neither then,” said Sally still fiercely.

“Then, in the name of fortune! why did you do it?” he ejaculated.

“I did it—­for mysel’,” said Sally.

She turned away, the water dripping from her at every step, and bounded up the slope with the erect carriage and springing gait which John remembered of old.

The fisherman retired somewhat disconsolately, and husband and wife, still palpitating, walked slowly away together; while “Golden Sally,” once more standing aloft on her sandy pinnacle, wrung the moisture out of her yellow hair.

“Th’ owdest member”