‘Justin! No! Oh, no!’ Frances’s frantic cries echoed into the empty air. There was no one to hear, no one to help. No one to pull him out just in case he might still be alive. With no thought for her own safety, Fran scrambled down the sloping river bank and lowered herself into the water. She found she could stand, though her feet sank into the mud on the river bed. She ignored her sinking feet and moved forward to catch hold of Justin and pull him towards her. He was incredibly heavy, she could hardly move him, though he was still floating, half-submerged. With superhuman effort she managed to drag him towards the bank, but as she pulled, his face turned in the water, pale with eyes that stared and hair that drifted like water weed about his head. It was then that she knew for certain that she was too late – that there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do for him. Her beloved brother was dead. For a moment she stood waist deep in the muddy water, sobbing, with no idea of what to do. It was, she knew, impossible for her to pull Justin completely clear of the river, but she felt she must get him out of the water. Suppose he drifted away while she went for help? But waterlogged as he was, he was too heavy. She even had difficulty getting back onto dry land herself. For a long moment she scrabbled with her feet against the river bank, but at last she managed to grasp hold of a small bush and pull herself free of the muddy water. As she crawled up the bank, she looked back at Justin’s body bobbing gently again at the edge of the pool and felt herself in the grip of despair. Then at last she had an idea. The dress she was wearing was an old one, a cotton dress for summer… with a belt tied loosely about her waist. Quickly she untied it and pulled it free. Making a slip knot, she lay down on her stomach and reached for Justin’s hand, which was floating, strangely pale, almost disembodied, close to the bank. Looping the belt over fingers that moved with the movement of the water, she pulled the slip knot tight about his wrist. It was still no use trying to pull him from the water, but she tied the other end of the belt round the bush on the bank, knotting it firmly so it wouldn’t pull free. Now at least when she fetched help, they would know where to find him.

Dripping wet and covered in mud, Fran scrambled along the river bank until she came to the footpath that would take her home. She was exhausted, unable to run, but she stumbled along as fast as she could. The first person she saw as she entered the yard was Fortune, her father’s coachman.

‘Why, Miss Frances,’ he cried in alarm as he took in her wet and muddy clothes and her tear-streaked face. ‘What on earth has happened to you?’