"It is rising, I think," says he softly and very pleasantly.
Miss Gower gives a wild scream.
"Help! help!" yells she. She waves her hands and arms towards the shore, but there is no one there to succour her. "Oh, Randal, the water is coming in—it's wetting my boots. It's getting on to my petticoats! Oh, my goodness! What shall I do?"
Here she picks up most of her garments; nay, all of them, indeed, and steps on to a loose bit of wood lying in the boat.
"Don't look! don't look!" screams she. There is a flicker of something scarlet—a second flicker of something that might be described as white tuckers of white embroidery.
"Look!" says Mr. Gower reproachfully. "What do you take me for? I'd die first. Ah!"—turning modestly aside—"how I have always been maligned!" He sighs. "I'm going to die now," says he. "Go on, aunt," in a melancholy tone. "There is little time to lose. Perfect your arrangements. The water is rising. I admire you. I do, indeed. There is a certain dignity in dying nicely, and without a sound."
"I won't die!" cries Miss Gower wildly. "I won't be dignified.
Ho! there! Help! help!"
She is appealing to the shores on either side, but no help is forthcoming. She turns at last a pale glance on Randal.
"Randal!" cries she, "you say you are tired of life. But—I—I'm not!"
"This is folly," says Mr. Gower. "It is born of an hour, filled with a sudden fear. In a few moments you will be yourself again, and will know that you are glad of a chance of escaping from this hateful world that you have been for so many years reviling. Just think! Only yesterday I heard you abusing it, and now in a very few moments you will sink through the quiet waters to a rest this world has never known."