“But we shan’t be shut off till ever so late,” said the Waters gaily. “We shall keep it up all night.” “The ineradicable offensiveness of youth is partially compensated for by its eternal hopefulness,” said the Cat. “Our dam is not, I am glad to say, designed to furnish water for more than four hours at a time. Reserve is Life.” “Thank goodness!” said the Black Rat. “Then they can return to their native ditches.” “Ditches!” cried the Waters; “Raven’s Gill Brook is no ditch. It is almost navigable, and _we_ come from there away.” They slid over solid and compact till the Wheel thudded under their weight. “Raven’s Gill Brook,” said the Rat. “_I_ never heard of Raven’s Gill.” “We are the waters of Harpenden Brook—down from under Callton Rise. Phew! how the race stinks compared with the heather country.” Another five foot of water flung itself against the Wheel, broke, roared, gurgled, and was gone. “Indeed,” said the Grey Cat, “I am sorry to tell you that Raven’s Gill Brook is cut off from this valley by an absolutely impassable range of mountains, and Callton Rise is more than nine miles away. It belongs to another system entirely.” “Ah yes,” said the Rat, grinning, “but we forget that, for the young, water always runs uphill.” “Oh, hopeless! hopeless! hopeless!” cried the Waters, descending open-palmed upon the Wheel “There is nothing between here and Raven’s Gill Brook that a hundred yards of channelling and a few square feet of concrete could not remove; and hasn’t removed!” “And Harpenden Brook is north of Raven’s Gill and runs into Raven’s Gill at the foot of Callton Rise, where ilex trees are, and _we_ come from there!” These were the glassy, clear waters of the high chalk. “And Batten’s Ponds, that are fed by springs, have been led through Trott’s Wood, taking the spare water from the old Witches’ Spring under Churt Haw, and we—we—_we_ are their combined waters!” Those were the Waters from the upland bogs and moors—a porter-coloured, dusky, and foam-flecked flood. “It’s all very interesting,” purred the Cat to the sliding waters, “and I have no doubt that Trott’s Woods and Bott’s Woods are tremendously important places; but if you could manage to do your work—whose value I don’t in the least dispute—a little more soberly, I, for one, should be grateful.”