d 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 tha