“N—n—o, but I just remembered it, so sprang off.” “And sent me down.” “I am sorry—did I hurt you?” “You might have hurt me badly.” “Let me go fetch the water and then we’ll see-saw again.” “But understand there must be two together—always, for that.” The cottage was supplied from a well that was some sixty to eighty feet below its level. From the oak and the Conjuring Stone a path descended to an old excavation, very deep, and so overhung with trees, and so limited in extent, that the sun never fell into it. At the bottom was deep bottle-green water—how deep none knew, and in it lived—so it was said—one enormous trout, too wary and well fed to allow himself to be caught. The slate sides of this abyss were hung with moss and fern and tendrils of creeping plants. A little way from this tremendous chasm, but only a few feet higher than the water’s edge was a well, that is to say a spring with the sides built up and a slab of slate covering it, in which was the coolest, most crystalline water. This spring never failed in the hottest summer, and its overflow trickled into the tarn that occupied the ancient, deserted quarry. It was a long way to go to get water for all requirements, but the water when got was most refreshing and delicious. At least twice a day Prue had to descend to the well with empty pitchers, and toil up the ascent with them laden. “And mind this, Prue,” said her mother repeatedly, “never you go no farther than the well, for the slate rock beyond by the water is that slippy you might fall in, and none ever hear you cry out.” The whole way down was so thick with crane’s-bill that the air was strong with its geranium savour. “No,” said George. “For once, Prue, I will fetch the water, and you bide here.” Then the young man caught up the brown pitchers and descended the path. In ten minutes he was back with them brimming over. “Now,” said Prue, “we will have another swing, only I will sit nearer the middle. I do not want to have a bad fall.” “Why should you have a bad fall?” “You might punish me for giving you one.” “I am not like to do that.” “I had rather not trust you.” So they swayed up and down. Then said Prue: “Why do you sit nearer the middle than I?” “Because I am three times as heavy as you and must make the balance right.” “It is still rather too much.” “Then draw nearer.” “But you will draw nearer still?” “I must. I cannot help it. Now then—try how it feels in the middle.” He put out his arm and drew her to the midst above the fulcrum, and there they sat, side by side, gently rocking. The least displacement of balance set them swaying. “Lovely, isn’t it?” asked George. “Beautiful,” answered Prue. “And I don’t see,” said George, “why we shouldn’t see-saw for always like this. I mean you and me together. It takes two, it does.” “I don’t know.”