"Alas! the fickle orb!" murmured Oriana; "it rises but to mock us, and
hides itself already in the bosom of that sable cloud. Is there not a
threat of rain there, Mr. Hare?"

"It looks unpromising, at the best," said Harold; "I think it would be
prudent to return."

Suddenly, little Phil, who had been lying at ease, with his head against
the thwarts, arose on his elbow and cried out:

"Wha'dat?"

"What is what, Phil?" asked Oriana. "Why, Phil, you have been dreaming,"
she added, observing the lad's confusion at having spoken so vehemently.

"Miss Orany, dar's a boat out yonder. I heard 'em pulling, sure."

"Nonsense, Phil! you've been asleep."

"By Gol! I heard 'em, sure. What a boat doing round here dis time o'
night? Dem's some niggers arter chickens, sure."

And little Phil, satisfied that he had fathomed the mystery, lay down
again in a fit of silent indignation. The boat was put about, but the
wind had died away, and the sail flapped idly against the mast. Harold,
glad of the opportunity for a little exercise, shipped the sculls and
bent to his work.

"Miss Oriana, put her head for the bank if you please. We shall have
less current to pull against in-shore."