“There’s somebody at the waterfit.  Gang, lassie, an’ dinna be lettin’ them aff withoot their siller this time!” said her aunt Barbara from her bed.  Annie Allen was accustomed to say nothing, and she did it now.

The boat to the Rhonefoot was seldom needed, and the oars were not kept in it.  They leaned against the end of the cottage, and Grace Allen took them on her shoulder as she went down.  She carried them as easily as another girl might carry a parasol.

Again there came the cry from the Rhonefoot, echoing joyously across the river.

Standing well back in the boat, so as to throw up the bow, she pushed off.  The water was deep where the boat lay, and it had been drawn half up on the bank.  Where Grace dipped her oars into the silent water, the pool was so black that the blade of the oar was lost in the gloom before it got half-way down.  Above there was a light wind moaning and rustling in the trees, but it did not stir even a ripple on the dark surface of the pool where the Black Water of Dee meets the brighter Ken.

Grace bent to her oars with a springing verve and force which made the tubby little boat draw towards the shore, the whispering lapse of water gliding under its sides all the while.  Three lines of wake were marked behind—­a vague white turbulence in the middle and two lines of bubbles on either side where the oars had dipped, which flashed a moment and then winked themselves out.

When she reached the Waterfoot, and the boat touched the shore, Grace Allen looked up to see Gregory Jeffray standing alone on the little copse-enclosed triangle of grass.  He smiled pleasantly.  She had not time to be surprised.

“What did you think of me this morning, running away without paying my fare?” he asked.

It seemed very natural now that he should come.  She was glad that he had not brought his horse.

“I thought you would come by again,” said Grace Allen, standing up, with one oar over the side ready to pull in or push off.

Gregory extended his hand as though to ask for hers to steady him as he came into the boat.  Grace was surprised.  No one ever did that at the Rhonefoot, but she thought it might be that he was a stranger and did not understand about boats.  She held out her hand.  Gregory leapt in beside her in a moment, but did not at once release the hand.  She tried to pull it away.

“It is too little a hand to do so much hard work,” he said.

Instantly Grace became conscious that it was rough and hard with rowing.  She had not thought of this before.  He stooped and kissed it.

“Now,” he said, “let me row across for you, and sit in front of me where I can see you.  You made me forget all about everything else this morning, and now I must make up for it.”

It was a long way across, and evidently Gregory Jeffray was not a good oarsman, for it was dark when Grace Allen went indoors to her aunts.  Her heart was bounding within her.  Her bosom rose and fell as she breathed quickly and silently through her parted red lips.  There was a new thing in her eye.