Presently, in the course of their wanderings, they came to a little sailing-boat drawn up upon the beach—not far up, however, just out of the reach of the waves. By this boat, in an attitude of intense contemplation, there stood an ancient mariner. His hands were in his pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the deep. Apparently he did not notice their approach till they were within two yards of him. Then he turned, “dashed” himself, and asked the lady, with a pull of his grizzled fore-lock, if she would not take a sail. Ernest looked surprised. “How’s the wind?” he asked. “Straight off shore, sir; will turn with the turn of the tide, sir, and bring you back.” “Will you come for a bit of a sail, Eva?” “O no, thank you. I must be getting home; it is seven o’clock.” “There is no hurry for you to get home. Your aunt and Florence have gone to tea with the Smythes.” “Indeed, I cannot come; I could not think of such a thing.” Her words were unequivocal, but the ancient mariner put a strange interpretation upon them. First he hauled up the little sail, and then, placing his brown hands against the stern of the boat, he rested his weight upon them, and caused her to travel far enough into the waves to float her bow. “Now, miss.” “I am not coming, indeed.” “_Now,_ miss.” “I will _not_ come, Ernest.” “Come,” said Ernest, quietly holding out his hand to help her in. She took it and got in. Ernest and the mariner gave a strong shove, and as the light boat took the water the former leaped in, and at the same second a puff of wind caught the sail, and took them ten yards out or more. “Why, the sailor is left behind!” said Eva. Ernest gave a twist to the tiller to get the boat’s head straight off shore, and then leisurely looked round. The mariner was standing as they had found him, his hands in his pockets, his pipe in his mouth, his eye fixed upon the deep. “He doesn’t seem to mind it,” he said, meditatively. “Yes, but I do; you must go back and fetch him.” Thus appealed to, Ernest went through some violent manoeuvres with the tiller, without producing any marked effect on the course of the boat, which by this time had got out of the shelter of the cliff, and was bowling along merrily. “Wait till we get clear of the draught from the cliff, and I will bring her round.” But when at last they were clear from the draught of the cliff, and he slowly got her head round, lo and behold, the mariner had vanished! “How unfortunate!” said Ernest, getting her head towards the open sea again; “he has probably gone to his tea.” Eva tried hard to get angry, but somehow she could not: she only succeeded in laughing. “If I thought that you had done this on purpose, I would never come out with you again.” Ernest looked horrified. “On purpose!” he said; and the subject dropped.