"Sail a-coming up the river, master," River Andrew said to Sep, who was awaiting Miriam in the village street, and he walked on, without further comment, spade on shoulder, toward the church-yard, where he spent a portion of his day, without apparent effect. So, when Miriam had done her shopping, it was only natural that they should turn their footsteps toward the quay and the river-wall. Or was it fate? So often is the natural nothing but the inevitable in holiday garb. "That is no Farlingford boat," said Sep, versed in riverside knowledge, so soon as he saw the balance-lug moving along the line of the river-wall, half a mile below the village. They stood watching. Few coasters were at sea in these months of wild weather, and there was nothing moving on the quay. The moss-grown slip-way, where "The Last Hope" had been drawn up for repair, stood gaunt and empty, half submerged by the flowing tide. Many Farlingford men were engaged in the winter fisheries on the Dogger, and farther north, in Lowestoft boats. In winter, Farlingford--thrust out into the North Sea, surrounded by marsh--is forgotten by the world. The solitary boat came round the corner into the wider sheet of water, locally known as Quay Reach. "A foreigner!" cried Sep, jumping, as was his wont, from one foot to the other with excitement. "It is like the boat that was brought up by the tide, with a dead man in it, long ago. And that was a Belgian boat." Miriam was looking at the boat with a sudden brightness in her eyes, a rush of colour to her cheeks, which were round and healthy and of that soft clear pink which marks a face swept constantly by mist and a salty air. In flat countries, where men may see each other, unimpeded by hedge or tree or hillock, across a space measured only by miles, the eye is soon trained--like the sailor's eye--to see and recognise at a great distance. There was no mistaking the attitude of the solitary steersman of this foreign boat stealing quietly up to Farlingford on the flood tide. It was Loo Barebone sitting on the gunwale as he always sat, with one knee raised on the thwart, to support his elbow, and his chin in the palm of his hand, so that he could glance up the head of the sail or ahead, without needing to change his position. Sep turned and looked up at her. "I thought you said he was never coming back," he said, reproachfully. "So I did. I thought he was never coming back." Sep looked at her again, and then at the boat. One never knows how much children, and dogs--who live daily with human beings--understand. "Your face is very red," he observed. "That comes from telling untruths." "It comes from the cold wind," replied Miriam, with an odd, breathless laugh. "If we do not go home, he will be there before us," said Sep, gravely. "He will make one tack across to the other side, and then make the mouth of the creek."