“He were a quare old man. Us seed very little of en. Arften people would come for en from a distance that wanted water found, and he did spend the day roving the country cutting blackthorns for his dowsing. Right up to the day when he took to his bed, poor soul.” “I should like to have seen him dowsing,” said Edwin. “I haven’t even seen the twigs that they use.” “Why, that would have been easy enough. Only the other day I throwed out a lot that belonged to your grandfather.” Edwin blushed at this sacrilege. “And could Uncle Will find water with a twig?” he asked. “Not I,” laughed his uncle. “But they do say it runs in families. Have you ever tried, John?” “I tried when I was a boy,” said Mr. Ingleby, “but nothing happened.” “I expect our Joe could,” said Aunt Sarah Jane, with infinite faith in her offspring. “No, mother, I’ve tried it,” said Joe, from the lamplit corner where he was wrestling with the science of sanitary inspection. “I wonder if I could . . .” said Edwin. “Well, you shall have a try,” laughed his uncle. “At this time o’ night?” said Aunt Sarah Jane, scandalised. “Let the boy have a try,” said Uncle Will, rising. “’Tis a beautivul moonlight night, and I’ll take him over the field where the new water-pipe runs.” “You’m mad, the two of you,” said his aunt with a sigh. Edwin and his uncle went out into the garden, and there the boy watched the gardener’s clumsy, skilful hands cut a forked twig from a blackthorn bush. “Hazel do work as well,” he said, “but father always used the thorn.” Then they went out together over a dewy meadow, and his uncle showed him how to hold the rod: with his two hands turned palm upwards, the arms of the twig between the third and fourth fingers, the thumb, and the palm of each hand, and the fork downwards between them. Over the meadow grass they walked slowly, then suddenly the tip of the rod began to turn upwards by no agency of which Edwin was aware. It was very thrilling, for his hands were quite still. “There you are,” said his uncle, “you’ve a found our water-pipe.” “Hold the rod down, uncle,” Edwin said. He did so, and now the mysterious force was so strong that the arms of the twig snapped. “Now, you’ve gone and broke it,” said Uncle Will. “Come in or you’ll catch cold.” They went in together. “Well . . .?” said Mr. Ingleby. “Oh, he’s a proper dowser, sure enough,” said Uncle Will. Edwin was still curiously thrilled with the whole business. He felt that a little more excitement in his attainment was due to him; but no one, not even his father, seemed in the least impressed. It comforted him to think that his cousin Joe, his eyes fixed on his book in the corner, had really less in common than himself with the strange dark people from whom they were both descended. It was better, he thought, to be a born dowser than a Fellow of Balliol. More wonderful still to be both.