“Very nice!” said Elizabeth.

“That old black feller ain’t up to rowin’ you anywhere, is he?  I don’t believe he is.”

“I’ll find a way to get about in her, somehow.”

“You must come over and see our folks —­ over the other side.  My old mother’s a great notion to see you —­” said he, pulling the boat round into place, —­ “and I like she should have what she’s a fancy for.”

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth; with about as much heed to his words as if a coney had requested her to take a look into his burrow.  But a few minutes after, some thought made her speak again.

“Have you a mother living, sir?”

“Ay,” he said with a little laugh, “she ain’t a great deal older than I be.  She’s as spry in her mind, as she was when she was sixteen.  Now —­ will you get into this?”

“Not now.  Whereabouts do you live?”

“Just over,” he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder and across the river, —­ “the only house you can see, under the mountain there —­ just under Wut-a-qut-o.  ’Tain’t a very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters.”

He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight, when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the little ‘Merry-go-round.’

“My arms won’t carry me far to-day,” she thought, as she pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the smooth water.  But how sweet to be dappling it again with her oar-blades, —­ how gracefully they rose and fell —­ how refreshing already that slight movement of her arms —­ how deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light carriage.  Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome the instant’s pleasure.  Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth’s oars dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat glided along.  She presently was far enough out to see Mr. Underhill’s bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the foot of the hill, close by the water’s edge.  Elizabeth lay on her oars and stopped and looked at it.

“Go over there!  Ridiculous!  Why should I? —­”

“And why shouldn’t I?” came in another whisper.  “Do me no harm —­ give them some pleasure.  It is doing as I would be done by.”

“But I can’t give pleasure to all the old women in the land,” she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.

“And this is only one old woman,” went on the other quiet whisper, —­ “and kindness is kindness, especially to the old and lonesome. —­”

It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea, more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear, Elizabeth’s conscience troubled her.  She lay still on her oars now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get rid of the matter.  She pondered Winthrop’s fancied doing in the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed across her mind, “Even Christ pleased not himself;” —­ and she knew then why Winthrop did not.  Elizabeth’s head drooped for a minute.  “I’ll go,” —­ she said to herself.