.

"What's her business picking up a mon against his will?" said a woman.

"She's an awfu' lassie," whined another. The examination of the swimmer
was then continued, and the crowd increased; some would have it he was
rapidly approaching, others that he made little or no way.

"Wha est?" said another.

"It's a lummy," said a girl.

"Na! it's no a lummy," said another.

Christie's boat was now seen standing out from the pier. Sandy Liston,
casting a contemptuous look on all the rest, lifted himself lazily into
the herring-boat and looked seaward. His manner changed in a moment.

"The Deevil!" cried he; "the tide's turned! You wi' your glass, could
you no see yon man's drifting oot to sea?"

"Hech!" cried the women, "he'll be drooned--he'll be drooned!"

"Yes; he'll be drooned!" cried Sandy, "if yon lassie does na come
alongside him deevelich quick--he's sair spent, I doot."

Two spectators were now added to the scene, Mrs. Gatty and Lord Ipsden.
Mrs. Gatty inquired what was the matter.

"It's a mon drooning," was the reply.

The poor fellow, whom Sandy, by aid of his glass, now discovered to
be in a wornout condition, was about half a mile east of Newhaven
pier-head, and unfortunately the wind was nearly due east. Christie was
standing north-northeast, her boat-hook jammed against the sail, which
stood as flat as a knife.

The natives of the Old Town were now seen pouring down to the pier and
the beach, and strangers were collecting like bees.

"After wit is everybody's wit!!!"--_Old Proverb._

The affair was in the Johnstone's hands.

"That boat is not going to the poor man," said Mrs. Gatty, "it is
turning its back upon him."

"She canna lie in the wind's eye, for as clever as she is," answered a
fishwife.

"I ken wha it is," suddenly squeaked a little fishwife; "it's Christie
Johnstone's lad; it's yon daft painter fr' England. Hech!" cried she,
suddenly, observing Mrs. Gatty, "it's your son, woman."

The unfortunate woman gave a fearful scream, and, flying like a tiger on
Liston, commanded him "to go straight out to sea and save her son."

Jean Carnie seized her arm. "Div ye see yon boat?" cried she; "and
div ye mind Christie, the lass wha's hairt ye hae broken? aweel,
woman--_it's just a race between deeth and Cirsty Johnstone for your
son._"

The poor old woman swooned dead away; they carried her into Christie
Johnstone's house and laid her down, then hurried back--the greater
terror absor