At Maldon that night was a hurried wedding, and Mistress Frances Rich became Dame Cammock before the day was done. When the news reached Lord Rich, thankful at the escape of his daughter and accepting the inevitable, all he said was : "She has even hazarded her life for him. God bless 'em!" And this pious wish seems to have been fulfilled, in one sense at least. They had thirteen children-two sons and eleven daughters-whose effigies may be seen to this day in Maldon church, kneeling devoutly, two and two, save one, beneath their mother.

The commonly received story says it was Lord Warwick's daughter who was the heroine of this adventure; but as the third Lord Rich did not become Lord Warwick till 1618, and Master Cammock died in 1602, this must be an error. The

Canewdon Church.

Railway Station, Althorne.

Oyster Watchboat.

THE CROUCH, BRIDGEMARSH ISLAND.

chances are, the Lord Rich of the story was the lady's brother, not her father.

There is another feature in the story which shows that the lover must have been rather elderly, since he was the father of nine children by his first wife, and these duly appear on the monument in All Saints' Church, at Maldon, under their mother's effigy ; and between the two ladies is worthy Master Cammock, kneeling and looking at neither. Somebody also appears to have changed the shields of arms over the ladies, and each wife has the others cognisance over her.

So much for real romance. An Essex Lochinvar and Miss Ullin combining their adventures with happier results.

But we've sailed up as far as we want. We could, with the tide still flowing, go farther yet, but there is nothing more to see, and

we might just take the mud, as the river narrows here. So ready about and off we go on the other tack. As we pass Bridgemarsh Island, we note what a good place for anchoring there is off the east end of it. Althorne Station lies quite handy, and the country is very pretty and hilly all round. Althorne has a future before it. The sailing all about is perfect, and quite easy of access to town. There is not much more of the tide to run. We make short miles of it back to Burnham, and as the breeze holds good we stand on for the mouth of the Roach. It is nearly high water when we get there. Shall we try the passage through by Havengore? It is risky-contrary to every rule to go up a narrow unknown creek at the top of the tide. At least, we can go as far as Paglesham, opposite Potten Island. The Roach is not so wide as the Crouch, but there is plenty of water at high tide as far as Great Stanbridge, and at low water as far as Paglesham. We are now sailing in what might be mistaken for Dutch waters. As it is high tide we look well over the dykes, and are cruising above the level of the land. Tree tops, wind-blown and stunted, seem to be level with

us.

House roofs peep over the dykes, but the lower stories are hidden. The land is very rich in Foulness and Wallasea, and the nearer it is to the sea the richer it is. For a long time Foulness was almost uninhabitable, owing to the want of fresh water; but by sinking artesian wells an excellent supply has been found.

We pass the landing-place for visiting Foulness about a mile up the Roach. In another half mile the creek takes a turn almost at right angles to the previous course, and in another threequarters-of-a-mile we come to the eastern channel of Potten Island. We go down this, and passing the two channels which are divided by the Island of New England, and which form Shelford Creek, we keep on the south-west channel of Havengore Creek. It is getting shallow here, and we begin to doubt the possibility of getting through. However, as the breeze is fresh, we are slipping along. The tide is beginning to run with us now; it is only two miles, but then there's the three miles over the Maplin Sands before we reach deep water. It will be very

close. If the breeze drops we shall stick. Swiftly we slip between the dykes. We can see the open sea now. There is the coastguard hulk; another half-hour and we shall be clear. How close the sands seem as we sound with the quant; not more than 6ft. It is getting too near to be pleasant. We wish we had not come at such a state of the tide. Another quarter-of-an-hour, and the water keeps about the same. There are the measured mile beacons. We steer to the north of them. The breeze still holds. We are spinning along-another quarter-of-an-hour. Saved! We are in the open sea, and can reach back with a beam wind as far as the Whittaker Beacon. The tide is with us, and in two hours more we are abreast of the buoy. It is nearly low water out here. All the banks are plainly showing. We are glad we came at this state of the tide, as we can see the banks which were covered the day before. The whole extent of Foulness Sands is gleaming in the western sun. The Barrow was just beginning to show as we passed it. The Buxey is high and dry. We let the ship come up on the wind, and lie-to for a bit.

On the whole we feel pleased with ourselves. We have done a pretty bit of sailing. Twenty-six miles at the very least, and if we intend going up to Burnham there is full fourteen more to do.

But what does it matter? We've all we want on board. The weather is at "set-fair" according to the glass, and certainly the westering sun does not gainsay it. We replenished the larder before starting, and it is all the same to us whether we reach a port before nightfall or not.

And so we dally with our tea, and bask in the levelling sun. It is just perfect. We are lying head to wind. The last dribble of the ebb is setting us towards the East Swin. The Whittaker Buoy, with its iron staff and ball at the end, is close alongside, shimmering in the scarcely-moving water. The brown back of the Buxey is stretching along to the north. Behind us is the black and white chequered buoy of the North Hook Sands, over which there is still a ripple, for there is only 6ft. of water on it at dead low water. Behind that again is the