queer-tempered little girl. Long before he got to the top of the ladder
he knew more than old Tobias, more than any of them--Mr. Mildmay or
young Williams, the other lighthouse man--had any idea of. He knew that
the voice which had reached him was that of his own Biddy, and before
Tobias could give him a hint, or ever a word had been said as to what
was best to do, he had pulled off his coat, tossed away his hat, and was
up to his waist in the water. For though not _so_ deep close round the
lighthouse as at the dangerous place where Biddy had lost her head, this
salt-water lake even at low tide was never less than two or three feet
in depth at the farther side.

'I can swim,' was all Mr. Vane called out to the three hurrying after
him. But so could Mr. Mildmay, and so could, of course, Tobias and
Williams. And it was not so much the fear of his friend's drowning as
the thought of the mischief that might come to him, delicate as he was,
from the chill and exposure, that made Mr. Mildmay shout after him,
'Come back, I entreat you, Vane; you are not fit for it,' while he
struggled to drag off a very heavy pair of boots he had on--boots he had
on purpose for rough shingly walking, but which he knew would weight him
terribly in the water.

A touch on his arm made him start. It was Tobias.

'Stop you here, sir,' he said; 'Bill's off, and he's the youngest and
spryest,' and sure enough there was Williams already within a few yards
of Mr. Vane. 'I don't take it there's much danger of no drownding--and
Bill knows the deep part. But it's cold for the gentleman, so delicate
as he is--we two had best stay dry and be ready to give 'em a hand when
they get in. But it beats me, it do, to think what child could be such a
fool as to try to cross that there water--such a thing's ne'er happened