Part of Fred’s route lay along the banks of the Yare, not far from its mouth. At a spot where there were many old anchors and cables, old and new trawl-beams, and sundry other seafaring rusty and tarry objects, the young fisherman met a pretty young girl, who stopped suddenly, and, with her large blue eyes expressing unspeakable surprise, exclaimed, “Fred!”
The youth sprang forward, seized the girl with his uninjured hand, and exclaimed, “Isa!” as he drew her towards him.
“Fred—not here. Behave!” said Isa, holding up a warning finger.
Fred consented to behave—with a promise, however, that he would make up for it at a more fitting time and place.
“But what is the matter!” asked Isa, with an anxious look, laying her pretty little hands on the youth’s arm.
Yes, you need not smile, reader; it is not a perquisite of ladies to have pretty little hands. Isa’s hands were brown, no doubt, like her cheeks, owing to exposure and sunshine, and they were somewhat roughened by honest toil; but they were small and well-shaped, with taper fingers, and their touch was very tender as she clasped them on her lover’s arm.
“Nothing serious,” replied the youth lightly; “only an accident with a fish-bone, but it has got to be pretty bad for want of attention; an’ besides I’m out o’ sorts somehow. No physic, you see, or doctors in our fleet, like the lucky dogs of the Short-Blue. I’ve been knocked up more or less for some weeks past, so they sent me home to be looked after. But I won’t need either physic or doctor now.”
“No? why not?” asked the girl, with a simple look.
“Cause the sight o’ your sweet face does away with the need of either.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Fred.”