der, Sarah? The tide's fairly
high."

"I'm afraid I'll be showing my ankles."

"I was hoping so. Wunnerful ankles you've a-got, Sarah, and a
wunnerful cage o' teeth. Such extremities 'd well beseem a king's
daughter, all glorious within!"

Sarah Blewitt pulled open the lower flap of the door and set her foot
on the ladder. She wore a white print gown beneath her cloak, and a
small bonnet of black straw decorated with sham cowslips. The cloak,
hitching for a moment on the ladder's side, revealed a beaded reticule
that hung from her waist, and clinked as she descended.

"I reckon there's scarce an inch of paint left on my front door," she
observed, as the man steadied her with an arm round her waist, and
settled her comfortably in the stern-sheets.

He unshipped his oars and began to pull.

"Ay. I heard 'em whackin' the door with a deal o' tow-row. They was
going it like billy-O when I came past the Town Quay. But one mustn'
complain, May-mornin's."

"I wasn' complaining," said the woman; "I was just remarking. How's
Maria?"

"She's nicely, thank you."

"And the children?"

"Brave."

"I've put up sixpennyworth of nicey in four packets--that's one
apiece--and I've written the name on each, for you to take home to
'em."

She fumbled in her reticule and produced the packets. The
peppermint-drops and brandy-balls were wrapped in clean white paper,
and the names written in a thin Italian hand. John thanked her and
stowed them in his trousers pockets.

"You'll give my love to Maria? I take it very kindly her letting you
come for me like this."

"Oh, as for that--" began John, and broke off; "I don't call to mind
that ever I saw a more handsome morning for the time o' year."

They had made this expedition together more than a score of times, and
always found the same difficulty in conversing. The boat moved easily
past the town, the jetties above it, and the vessels that lay off them
awaiting their cargoes; it turned the corner and glided by woods where
the larches were green, the sycamores dusted with bronze, the wild
cherry-trees white with blossom, and all voluble. Every little bird
seemed ready to burst his throat that morning with the deal he had to
say. But these two--the man especially--had nothing to say, yet ached
for words.

"Nance Treweek's married," the woman managed to tell him at last.

"I was thinking it likely, by the way she carried on last Maying."

"That wasn' the man. She've kept com