Not so much wonder, then, in Mrs. Wingate believing she saw the _canwyll corph_. No more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate.
"Yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "I knowed it would come. Poor thing! I hadn't no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't had been so fond o' her. If she'd had badness in her, Jack wouldn't greet and grieve as he be doin' now."
Though right in the premises--for Mary Morgan was a good girl--Mrs. Wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. But, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. It is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow.
It is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there be any sign of them returning. From the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below.
Placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. In addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. Her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. Jack was just about starting off for the Ferry to replace them when the Captain came. Now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach Rugg's before the shop closes. If not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. In the Widow Wingate's life candles seem to play an important part!
However, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant, but recognisable. Often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son; for Jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the Wye has but he--none equalling it in _timbre_ and regularity. His mother can tell it as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb.