laughed aloud—­a strange laugh, and at its close uncannily like a sob.  Tilda, watching him quietly, observed that he trembled too—­trembled all over—­from time to time.  She observed, too, that this happened when he looked up from the fire and the kettle; but also that in looking up he never once looked back, that his eyes always wandered along the still waterway and to the horizon ahead.  This puzzled her completely.

Breakfast followed, and was delightful, though not unaccompanied by terrors.  A barge hove in sight, wending downwards from Bursfield, and the children hid.  It passed them, and after ten minutes came a couple from the same direction, with two horses hauling at the first, and the second (which Sam called a butty-boat) towed astern.  Each boat had a steersman, and the steersman called to Sam and asked for news of his young woman; whereupon Sam called back, offering to punch their heads for twopence.  But it was all very good-natured.  They passed on laughing, and the children re-emerged.  The sun shone; the smoke of the embers floated against it, across the boat, on the gentlest of breezes; the food was coarse, but they were hungry; the water motionless, but Mr. Mortimer’s talk seemed to put a current into it, calling them southward and to high adventures—­southward where no smoke was, and the swallows skimmed over the scented water-meads.  Even the gaudily-painted cups and saucers, which Mr. Mortimer produced from a gaudily-painted cupboard, made part of the romance.  Tilda had never seen the like.  They were decorated round the rims with bands of red and green and yellow; the very egg-cups were similarly banded; and portraits of the late Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort decorated the cupboard’s two panels.

Breakfast over, she helped Mr. Mortimer to wash up, and while she helped was conscious of a new and uncomfortable feeling, of which she could make no account with herself.  It was not the stuffiness of the cabin that oppressed her; nor the dread of pursuit; nor anxiety for Arthur Miles, lest he should run off and fall into mischief.  By stooping a little she could keep him in view, for he had settled himself on the after-deck, and was playing with ’Dolph—­or, rather, was feeling ’Dolph’s ears and paws in a wondering fashion, as one to whom even a dog was something new and marvellous; and ’Dolph, stretched on his side in the sunshine, was undergoing the inspection with great complaisance.  No; the cause of her restlessness was yet to seek.

She went out and sat upon the cabin step for awhile, deep in thought, her eyes fixed on Sam Bossom, who, just beyond the cabin roof, was stooping over the well and untying its tarpaulins.  By and by she sprang to her feet and walked forward to him.

“Mr. Bossom,” she said with decision, “I know what’s the matter with me.”

“Then,” answered Sam, “you ’re luckier than most people.”

“I want a wash.”

“Do you, now?  Well, as to that, o’ course you’re the best judge; but I ’adn’t noticed it.”