to
accompany my friend, Harry Blew, in some of his boating trips, or to get
possession of the "dinghy," and have a row on my own account. Thus,
then, were my Sundays passed.

While my mother was living, I had been taught to regard this idle way of
spending Sunday as sinful; but the example which I had before me in my
uncle's life, soon led me to form other ideas upon this matter, and I
came to regard the Lord's Day as only differing from any other of the
week in its being by far the pleasantest.

One Sunday, however, proved anything but pleasant. So far from it, that
it came very near being the most painful as well as the _last_ day of my
life--which was once more imperilled by my favourite element--the water.

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE REEF.

It was Sunday morning, and as fine a one as I can remember. It was in
the month of May, and not likely to be otherwise than fine. The sun was
shining brightly, and the birds filled the air with joyous music. The
thrush and blackbird mingled their strong vigorous voices, with the
mellowed trilling of the skylark, and over the fields could be heard
almost continuously the call of the cuckoo--now here, now there, as the
active creature plied her restless wing from one hedge-tree to another.
There was a strong sweet perfume in the air like the scent of almonds,
for the white thorn was now expanding its umbels of aromatic flowers,
and there was just enough breeze to bear their fragrance throughout the
whole atmosphere. The country, with its green hedgerows, its broad
fields of young corn, its meadows enamelled with the golden ranunculus
and the purple spring orchis both in full flower; the country with its
birds' nests and bird music would have been attractive to most boys of
my age, but far more fascination for me was there in that which lay
beyond--that calm, glassy surface of a sky-blue colour that shone over
the fields, glistening under the rays of the sun like a transparent
mirror. That great watery plain was the field upon which I longed to
disport myself: far lovelier in my eyes than the rigs of waving corn, or
the flower-enamelled mead, its soft ripple more musical to my ear than
the songs of thrush or skylark, and _even_ its peculiar smell more
grateful to my senses than the perfume of buttercups and roses.

As soon, therefore, as I left my chamber and looked forth upon this
smiling, shining sea, I longed to fling myself on its bosom with a
yearning which I cannot e