“Oh, you may trust us, aunt. We won’t take you into any danger.”
As they were speaking the boat was rowed round a sharp curve to where the river on each side was embowered in trees, and stretching apparently like a bridge from side to side was one of the many weirs that cross the stream; while from between its piles, in graceful curves a row of little waterfalls flowed down, each arc of water glistening golden and many-tinted in the evening sun.
“There!” cried Scarlett.—“Easy, Jack.—What do you think of that, aunt, for a view?”
“Yes,” said the old lady thoughtfully; “it is very sweet.”
“A very poet’s dream,” said Prayle softly, as he rested his elbow on the gunwale of the boat, his chin upon his hand.
“It is one of my husband’s favourite bits,” said Lady Scarlett, smiling in the face of him she named.—“Look, Naomi; that is the fishing-cottage, there on the left.”
“I have not seen the weir for years—twenty years,” said Aunt Sophia thoughtfully; “and then it was from the carriage, as we drove along the road.”
“Not half so good a view as this,” said Scarlett.—“Now, then, we’ll go through the lock, row up for a mile by the Dell woods, and then back.”
“But you will be tired, my dear,” said Aunt Sophia, whom the beauty of the scene seemed to have softened; and her worn sharp face looked wistful and strange.
“Tired?” said Lady Scarlett, laughing. “Oh, no, aunt; he’s never tired.”