“That’s my brave man!” she shouted, as she dashed through hedge and bush in her onward progress, with her eye fixed on the cradle, and regardless of all obstructions that lay in her path. “That’s my brave man! Haud on, John—haud on! Never mind the ragin o’ the waters, John, but be o’ stout heart; for the Lord’s wi’ ye, and ’ll bear ye up wi’ a strong arm. This way noo, John—this way noo,” she added, pointing to a small inlet where there was no current, and which promised an easy landing-place. “This way, John,” she said, and dashed into the water to assist the voyagers to land. Young, approving of Jean’s suggestion, made a strong effort to free himself from the current, and succeeded in getting into the still and shallow water, where he quickly gained his feet; Jean, at the same moment, pouncing on the child, which she took from the cradle and hugged to her bosom in a rapture of joy. “Faith, it was a teuch job, Jean,” said Young, now shaking himself like a huge water-dog; “but it’s a guid ane, and I houp ’ll stan’ against twa or throe o’ my sins.” “Nae doot o’t, John—nae doot o’t,” replied Jean, gazing fondly on the infant as she spoke. “It’s a guid deed, and will be remembered to yer advantage baith here and hereafter. A bonny bairn it is, in troth,” she went on, now apostrophizing the infant; “and ’ll be sair missed by somebody, I warrant.” Having said this, she wrapped up the child in the blankets in which it had been enveloped in the cradle, and, accompanied by Young, returned to the encampment, which they found breaking up, and the gang hurriedly preparing to depart—a sudden move, indeed, but one for which there was good reason. The gipsies had rescued a number of things from the water, which it was certain their owners would miss, and which, therefore, it was not improbable they might institute some troublesome inquiries after, if they remained much longer where they were; and it was thought best to avoid this annoyance by decamping. Urged on by these considerations, the packing up was soon completed; and, in a very few minutes, the whole troop was on the march towards Yetholm, in the neighbourhood of which they again pitched their tents. Our story does not require, neither would it be in the least interesting, to follow any further the subsequent wanderings of the erratic tribe to which we have introduced the reader; nor would it afford any entertainment to trace the infant years of the little one whom they had rescued from the flood. It is enough to say that he grew up, under the maternal care and tendance of Jean Gordon—who had especially attached herself to him—a stout and active lad, bearing the name of his foster-mother, which had been conferred upon him by the general consent of the gang, in consequence of their mutual attachment.