“Wot’s that?”

“Why, that a landscape should be painted where it stands, and not in the studio.”

“You couldn’ very well paint with one ‘and an’ paddle with the other,” she began; but added in a moment, “Why there’s Arthur Miles, o’ course! doin’, as ush’al, while the others are talkin’.  That child brings luck w’erever ’e goes.”

“You think that I could change places and trust him to steer.”

“Think?  Why for the las’ ten minutes ’e ’as been steerin’?”

So below Cleeve they changed places, Mr. Jessup settling himself amidships with his apparatus for sketching, while Arthur Miles was promoted—­if the word may be allowed—­to the seat astern.  For a while he took his new responsibility gravely, with pursed lips and eyes intent on every stroke of the paddle, watching, experimenting, as a turn of the wrist more or less righted or deflected the steering.  But in a few minutes he had gained confidence, and again his gaze removed itself from the swirl around the blade and began to dwell on the reaches ahead.

They were entering the rich vale of Evesham.  On their left the slopes of Marcleeve Hill declined gradually to the open plain; on their right, behind a long fringe of willows, stretched meadow after meadow, all green and flat as billiard-tables.  They were passing down through the scene of a famous battle.  But the children had never heard of Evesham fight; and Mr. Jessup had mislaid his guide-book.  He sat with half-closed eyes, now and again dipping his brush over the gunwale, and anon, for a half-minute or so, flinging broad splashes of water-colour upon his sketching-pad.

They were nearing the ferry at Harvington, and already began to lift the bold outline of Bredon Hill that shuts out the Severn Valley, when without warning the boy broke into song . . .

It was the strangest performance.  It had no tune in it, no intelligible words; it was just a chant rising and falling, as the surf might rise and fall around the base of that Island for which his eyes sought the green vale right away to the horizon.

Mr. Jessup looked up from his work.  His eyes encountered Tilda’s, and Tilda’s were smiling.  But at the same time they enjoined silence.

The boy sang on.  His voice had been low and tentative at first; but now, gathering courage, he lifted it upon a note of high challenge.  He could not have told why, but he sang because he was steering towards his fate.  It might lie far, very far, ahead; but somewhere ahead it lay, beyond the gradually unfolding hills; somewhere in the west these would open upon the sea, and in the sea would be lying his Island.  His song already saluted it.

“I am coming!” it challenged.  “O my fate, be prepared for me!”

So they floated down to Harvington Mill and Weir; and as Mr. Jessup half-turned his head, warning him to steer for shore, the boy’s voice faltered and dropped suddenly to silence, as a lark drops down from the sky.  Tilda saw him start and come to himself with a hot blush, that deepened when she laughed and ordered ’Dolph to bark for an encore.