finished her one lump; she was tired of travelling in the wrong direction, with her head much lower than her heels, and she suddenly stopped.

It was quite time. Another step forward would have sent them tobogganing into a brawling stream. With a shiver of fear Amy realized this.

"O-oh! Oh! You knew best, after all! You wouldn't come till I made you; and now—how shall we get out! Hark! What's that?"

The burro had already pricked up her ears. There was a shout from somewhere.

Amy managed to slide off and fling herself flat against the slope. When she tried to climb back to a less dangerous spot the twigs she clutched broke in her hands and the rocks cut her flesh. The adventure which had been fascinating was fast becoming frightful.

"Hil-loa! Hil-l-loa!"

Clinging desperately to the undergrowth, she managed to move her head and look down. Far below in the ravine somebody was waving a white cloth.

"Hilloa, up there!"

She was too terrified to speak; yet, after the salute had reached her several times, she dared to loose one hand and wave a returning signal.

"You—just—hold on! I'll come—and get—you!"

As "holding on" was all that either Amy or Pepita could do just then, they obeyed, perforce; although, presently, the burro had scrambled to a narrow ledge, whence she could see the whole descent and from which, if left to herself, she would doubtless have found a way into the valley.

They clung and waited for so long that the girl grew confused; then tried to rally her own courage by addressing the "Californian."

"It's so—so absurd—I mean, awful! If that man doesn't come soon, I shall surely fall. My fingers ache so, and I'm slipping. I—am—slipping! Ah!"

Fortunately, her rescuer was near. He had worked his way upward on all fours, his bare feet clinging securely where shoe-soles would have been useless. He approached without noise, save of breaking twigs, until he was close beside them, when Pepita concluded it was time to bid him welcome.

"Br-r-r-ray! A-humph! A-humph—umph—mph—ph—h!"

The climber halted suddenly.

"Sho-o!"

Also startled, Amy lost her hold and shot downward straight into the arms of the stranger, who seized her, croaking in her ear:—

"Hilloa! What you up to? Can't you wait a minute?"

Then, with a strong grasp of her clothing, he wriggled himself sidewise along the bank to a spot where the rock gave place to earth and shrubs.

"Now catch your breath and let her go!"

The girl might have screamed, but she had no time. Instantly, she was again sliding downward, with an ever-increasing momentum, toward apparent destruction, yet landing finally upon a safe and mossy place; past which, for a brief space, the otherwhere rough stream flowed placidly. She caught the hum of happy insects and the moist sweet odor of growing ferns, then heard another rush and tumble. But she was as yet too dazed to look up or realize fresh peril, before Pepita and the other stood beside her.

"Sho! That beats—huckleberries!"

Amy struggled to her feet. She had never heard a voice like that, which began a sentence with mighty volume and ended it in a whisper. She stared at the owner curiously, and with a fresh fear. "He looks as queer as his voice," she thought.

She was right. His physique was as grotesque as his attire; which consisted of a white oilskin blouse, gayly bordered with the national colors, trousers of the most aggressive blue, and a helmet-shaped hat, adorned by a miniature battle-axe, while a tiny broom was strapped upon his shoulders.

"Huh! pretty, ain't I? The boys gave 'em to me."

"Did—they?"

"Yes. You needn't be scared. I shan't hurt you. I'm a Rep-Dem-Prob."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Yes. I march with the whole kerboodle. I tell you, it's fun."

It was "Presidential year," and Amy began to understand, not only that the lad before her was a "natural," but, presumably, that he had been made the victim of village wit. She had heard of the "marching bands," and inferred that the strange dress of her rescuer was made up by fragments from rival political uniforms.

"Yes. I'm out every night. Hurrah for Clevey-Harris!"

"You must get very tired."

"No. It's fun. I drag the gun carriage. That's on account o' my strength. Look a' there for an arm!" And he thrust out his illy proportioned limb with a pitiable pride.

"I see. But now that you've helped me down the bank, will you as kindly show me the way home?"

"Never slid that way before, did you? Only thing, though. I'll show you all right if you'll let me ride your donkey. Funny, ain't she? Make her talk."

"I think she's very pretty; and you may ride her, certainly, if she will let you."

A puzzled and angry expression came over the youth's face as he looked toward the burro, who had already begun to make hay for herself out of the lush grasses bordering the Ardsley.

"Make her talk, I say."

"She'll do that only to please herself. She's rather self-willed, and besides—"

"Who do you march with?"

"March? March! I?"

"Yes."

"Why, nobody. Of course not. Why should you think it?"

The lad scrutinized her dress and gazed abstractedly upon the white "Californian." Just then, a "parade" was the dominant idea in the poor fellow's limited intelligence. Amy's simple white flannel frock, with its scarlet sash, and the scarlet cap upon her dark curls, suggested only another "uniform." The girls with whose appearance he was familiar were not so attired.

Neither did they ride upon white donkeys. Yet a donkey of venerable and unhappy appearance did nightly help to swell the ranks of the country's patriots, and the beast which he knew enjoyed a sort of honor: it drew an illuminated "float" wherein rode a greatly envied fifer.

"What makes you ask that?" again demanded Amy, now laughing; for she had just imagined what her mother's face would express, should her daughter become a part of a "parade."

"Oh! because."

Pepita now took share in the conversation. "Br-r-rr-a-y! Ah-huh-um-umph! Ah-umph—u-m-ph—ah-umph—umph—mph—ph—h-h-h!" she observed.

Never was a remark more felicitous. The lad threw himself down on the grass, laughing boisterously. Amy joined, in natural reaction from her former fear, and even the "Californian" helped on the fun by observing them with an absurdly injured expression.

"She is funny, I admit; though she is as nothing compared to her brother Balaam. If you like that kind of music, you should hear their duet about breakfast time. Which is the shortest way to some real road?"

"Come on. I'll show you."

"Thank you; and, you are so tall, would you mind getting me that bunch of yellow leaves—just there? They are so very, very lovely I'd like to take them home to put in father's studio."

"What's that? Where's it at? Who are you, anyhow?"

"Amy Kaye."

"I'm 'Bony,'—Bonaparte Lafayette Jimpson. Who's he?"

"My father is Cuthbert Kaye, the artist. Maybe you know him. He is always discovering original people."

The speech was out before she realized that it was not especially flattering. Her father liked novel models, and she had imagined how her new acquaintance would look as a "study." Then she reflected that the lad was not as pleasing as he was "original."

"No. I don't know him. He don't live in the village, I 'low?"

"Of course not. We live at Fairacres. It has been our home, our family's home, for two hundred years."

"Sho! You don't look it. An' you needn't get mad, if it