t feels as if we were really sailing," said Isobel, as the boat
danced upon the green water, pulling at its painter as though it were
anxious to break away and follow the ebbing tide.

"She'd cut through anything, she's so sharp in the bows," said Charlie,
handling the sculls lovingly, and looking out towards the mouth of the
harbour, where long white-capped waves flecked the horizon.

"Can't you take us for a row, Charlie?" cried Belle; "it's so jolly on
the water."

"Yes, do, Charlie," echoed Hilda; "it would be such fun."

"Do you mean, go for a real sail?" asked Isobel, rather aghast at such a
daring proposal.

"Oh, we'd only take her for a turn round the harbour, and be back before
any one missed her. It would be an awful lark," said Charlie.

"But not without a boatman!" remonstrated Isobel.

"Why not? I know all about sailing," replied Charlie confidently, for,
having been occasionally taken yachting by his father, and having picked
up a number of nautical terms, which he generally used wrongly, he
imagined himself to be a thorough Jack Tar. "Wouldn't you like it? I
thought you were fond of the sea."

"So I am," said Isobel; "but I don't think we ought to go without
asking. It's not our boat, and the man she belongs to mightn't like us
to take her out by ourselves."

"I suppose you're afraid," sneered Charlie; "most girls are dreadful
land-lubbers. Hilda's keen enough; and as for Belle, she's half wild to
go, I can see."

"I should think I am; and what's more, I mean to!" declared Belle; and
settling the dispute as Alexander of old untied the Gordian knot, she
took her penknife from her pocket, and leaning over, cut the painter off
sharp.

"_Now_ you've done it!" cried Charlie. "Well, we're off, at any rate, so
we may as well enjoy ourselves.--Hilda, you must steer while I row. If
you watch me feather my oars, you'll see I can manage the thing in
ripping style."

There was such a strong ebb tide that Charlie had really no need to row.
The boat went skimming over the waves as if she had been a veritable
stormy petrel, sending the water churning round her bows. Although all
four children felt a trifle guilty, they could not help enjoying the
delightful sensation of that swift-rushing motion over the sea. Nearly
all Anglo-Saxons have a love for the water: perhaps some spirit of the
old vikings still lingers in our blood, and thrills afresh at the splash
of the waves, the dash of the salt spray, and th