and would have gone forth; but her aunt Annie, waking and startled, a
tall, gaunt apparition, came to her.

"Grace Allen," she said, "where are you gangin' at this time o' the
nicht?"

"There's somebody at the boat," she said, "waiting. Let me gang, Aunt
Annie: they want me; I hear them cry. O Annie, I hear them crying as a
bairn cries!"

"Lie doon on yer bed like a clever lass," said her aunt gently. "There's
naebody there."

"Or gin there be," said Aunt Barbara from her bed, "e'en let them cry.
Is this a time for decent fowk to be gaun play-actin' aboot?"

So the daylight came, and the evening and the morning were the second
day. And Grace Allen went about her work with clack of gripper-iron and
dip of oar.

Late on in the gloaming of the third day following, Aunt Annie went down
to the broad flat boat that lay so still at the water's edge. Something
black was knocking dully against it.

Grace had been gone four hours, and it was weary work watching along the
shore or going within out of the chill wind to endure Barbara's bitter
tongue.

The black thing that knocked was the small boat, broken loose from her
moorings and floating helplessly. Annie Allen took a boathook and pulled