Antony waved his handkerchief in return, and almost immediately noticed that the boat had changed its direction, and was putting back towards a point of dark rocks that stood out into the sea about three hundred yards to the west. Thither he bent his steps, the little craft appearing suddenly to get very much larger and more distinct, and he could see now that the single figure who sat therein was Lotty herself. Next moment he was out on the point-end, the dingy's bows rasping on the black, weed-covered boulder on which he was standing. 'Good-morning, dear. How well you row! Can I assist you up?' 'Oh no, Mr Blake, I am not landing yet. I have had breakfast ever so long ago; and, look, I have caught all these fish! Mind you don't step on them.' 'Am I to come on board, then, and take the oars?' 'You may come on board, but not take the oars. You are just to sit in the stern-sheets and be good.' 'Be good?' 'Yes, Mr Blake; you must not wriggle about, because the _Jenny Wren_ is small, and you are big. If you wriggled much you might capsize.' 'I won't wriggle a bit, Lotty. You are so good!' 'Well,' she told him, 'sit right in the centre aft there, and lean forward, so that your weight may be divided.' 'This way?' 'That way, Mr Blake. Thanks.' 'It isn't a very comfy way to sit, Lotty, and I can't see you without bending back my head.' 'You needn't see me. Keep your face down if you like, and look at the fish. Once,' she continued, 'I took Chops out; but he wobbled and wriggled so much I had to tell him to go; and, of course, he went.' 'What! Jumped into the water?' 'Yes, Mr Blake; he could see I was cross. But Chops is the best swimmer in the world, so he soon got back to shore.' 'I hope, Lotty, you won't tell me to go.' 'Not if you sit still. That's it. Now, you can raise your head and shoulders just a little, so that I can see you talking. Speak!' 'I've nothing to say, Lotty.' 'If you don't speak you'll have to sing, and that will be worse for you, perhaps.' 'Well, child, I'm sure you love the sea.' 'Oh,' she cried enthusiastically, 'I love it! I love it always! I love all of it! It is always speaking to me and saying things in calm and in storm. And all the birds too; they are mine, you know. Watch that gull, Mr Blake, with his clean, clean white wings. He knows me, you know, because I feed him. He is coming nearer and nearer, tack and half-tack. You hear his wings now, don't you? _Whiff--whiff--whiff_ they say. Now, look, but don't move.' This little gipsy lass lay on her oars for a moment, put half a tiny milk-biscuit between her red lips, and held up her face. It was a sweetly pretty picture. Bare arms, feet, and neck; tiny red hands that held the oars; hair like dark seaweed afloat on her shapely shoulders.