"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