How would it do to make a bold move,—­to speak to her?  Might I not show her how much was at stake, and in some way have my faith confirmed?  Would, or wouldn’t it answer for me to do this?  Should, or shouldn’t I make bungling work of it?  I turned the matter over in my mind, to assure myself of my right to intermeddle.

We, too, had a sort of friendship, and I conceived that she very much respected my opinion.  In some ways, I had been of service to her.  The old man, her father, had been involved in legal troubles.  She was anxious to understand all about it.  So I talked law to her, read law to her, and marked law for her in my big books, besides giving advice gratis.  She had also taken other books from my library, whenever she chose.  I had lent her pictures to copy, and had shown her the way to various points, in the country round about, whence a simple view might easily be taken.  Moreover, I was all the same as one of the family, and felt a brother’s interest in David.  And, lastly, I was eight or ten years older than she.

’Twas certainly my right to speak.  I could well see, however, that it was a matter of some delicacy.  My superior age and wisdom might shed a halo around me; still, I was nothing more nor less than a young man, for all that.

It was one pleasant afternoon in the latter part of September, that, engaged in these perplexing meditations, I strolled down towards the shore.  Mary Ellen hadn’t been in to tea, her mother said, and I was wondering what had become of her.

One solitary buttonwood stood close to the edge of the bank,—­so close that at high tide its brandies hung over the water.  I climbed up into a reserved seat which was always kept for me there, a comfortable little crotch among the boughs.  Upon extraordinary occasions,—­a splendid sunset, or a rain, coming over the water, or an uncommonly fine moon, or a furious storm,—­I used to mount to this seat for a good view.

On this particular afternoon the tide was unusually high,—­in some places, up to the top-rail of the meadow-fence.  Our “Crick” was quite a little bay.

A skiff came paddling along-shore.  As it drew near, I saw that it contained two people,—­the Doctor’s boy and Mary Ellen.  He was singing, but I was unable to distinguish the words.  Then there was some laughing.  After that, she began singing to him, and I made out both words and tune, for then the boat was quite near.  It was an old-fashioned ballad, which I once heard her sing to Emily.  It began thus:—­

  “As I was walking by the river-side,
  Where little streams do gently glide,
  I heard a fair maiden making her moan,—­
  ’Oh, where is my sweet William gone? 
  Go, build me up a little boat,
  All on the ocean I will float,
  Hailing all ships as they pass by,
  Inquiring for my sweet sailor-boy.’”

I liked the music, it was so plaintive, so different from the common well-bred songs.