she was seated in the boat for Portsmouth, and her uncle believing her to be crying, left her undisturbed till she had composed herself to wear the front that she knew was needful, however her heart might throb beneath it, and as their boat threaded its way through the ships, even then numerous, she looked wistfully up at the tall tower of the castle, with earnest prayers for the living, and a longing she durst not utter, to ask her uncle whether it were right to pray for the poor strange, struggling soul, always so cruelly misunderstood, and now so summarily dismissed from the world of trial.

Yet presently there was a revulsion of feeling as she was roused from her meditations by the coxswain’s answer to her uncle, who had asked what was a smart, swift little smack, which after receiving something from a boat, began stretching her wings and making all sail for the Isle of Wight.

The men looked significant and hesitated.

“Smugglers, eh?  Traders in French brandy?” asked the Doctor.

“Well, your reverence, so they says.  They be a rough lot out there by at the back of the Island.”

“There would be small harm in letting a poor man get a drink of spirits cheap to warm his heart,” said one of the other men; “but they say as how ’tis a very nest of ’em out there, and that’s how no one can ever pitch on the highwaymen, such as robbed Farmer Vine t’other day a coming home from market.”

“They do say,” added the other, “that there’s them as ought to know better that is thick with them.  There’s that young master up at Oakwood—­that crooked slip as they used to say was a changeling—­ gets out o’ window o’ nights and sails with them.”

“He has nought to do with the robberies, they say,” added the coxswain; “but I could tell of many a young spark who has gone out with the fair traders for the sport’s sake, and because gentle folk don’t know what to do with their time.”

“And they do say the young chap is kept uncommon tight at home.”

Here the sight of a vessel of war coming in changed the topic, but it had given Anne something more to think of.  Peregrine had spoken of means arranged for making her his own.  Could that smuggling yacht have anything to do with them?  He could hardly have reckoned on meeting her alone in the morning, but he might have attempted to find her thus—­or failing that, he might have run down the boat.  If so, she had a great deliverance to be thankful for, and Charles’s timely appearance had been a great blessing.  But Peregrine! poor Peregrine! it became doubly terrible that he should have perished on the eve of such a deed.  It was cruel to entertain such thoughts of the dead, yet it was equally impossible not to feel comfort in being rid for ever of one who had certainly justified the vague alarm which he had always excited in her.  She could not grieve for him now that the first shock was over, but she must suppress all tokens of her extreme anxiety on account of Charles Archfield.