STANDING IN THE WATER ALL THIS TIME! WHAT AM I THINKING OF!”

“A Greek friend of mine, dead some years. He would have loved to turn you into marble.”

She gave a little crowing laugh, delightful to hear. “I’d much rather stay alive.”

“You are right. Better be a Greek goddess alive, than one dead.”

She laughed again, “You’re—unusual.”

He bowed with another flourish. “Then, so are you.”

Their eyes met frankly. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said. “But you’ve been standing in the water all this time! What am I thinking of! Come up here.”

She sprang to her feet, as if to make room for him upon the rock, but sank back quickly. He gave her a scrutinizing glance.

“What was that I heard?”

“I asked you to get out of that horrid water. It must be frightfully cold.”

He shook an admonitory finger. “Bravely done, but you can’t fool me so easily. I heard a moan, and—and I won’t remark that you’re crying.”

“You’d—better not.”

“You hurt yourself when you stumbled.” His firm hand was on her shoulder.

“No—n-o. Well, even if I did turn my ankle, I’m not crying. It’s very tactless of you to notice.”

He tried to catch a glimpse of the slim leg through the dancing water. It swung back in vigorous embarrassment.

“The other ankle, then?”

“Ye-es.”

“I’m awfully sorry. Can’t I do something?”

“I think I’ll go home.”

“But you can’t walk.”

“I think so. Isn’t this just too tiresome? I will walk.”

She rose to her feet at the word, but, once there, gave a cry, and stood tottering. His arm caught her about the waist.

“Where do you live? Near here anywhere?”

“Oh, yes; just up the lane. But it might as well be ten miles.” Her brave laugh was half a sob.

“Not a bit of it! Hold tight.”

She flushed and gave an astonished wriggle as she found herself lifted and borne up the lane.

“Don’t squirm so, child,” he ordered.

“You’re carrying me!”

“Oh, no! We’re playing lawn-tennis.”

“Goodness! You fairly grabbed me.”

“Perhaps I ought to have asked your permission, but if I had you might have refused it.”

She laughed. “I think I should.”

“It’s too late now,” he said contentedly. “Does the foot hurt?”

“Not much, thank you—thank you, Mr.——”

He was obdurately silent. She tried again.

“Thank you, Mr. ——. Please, what’s your name?”

“‘Puddin’ Tame,’” he laughed.

“‘Where do you live?’” she chanted delightedly.

“‘Down the lane.’ No, you live down the lane.”

“It isn’t far now. Are you tired?”

“Oh, no! I’m doing very well, thank you.”

“Perhaps you’d better rest.”

“By no means. I hope you live over the hills and far away.”

“You aren’t bashful, are you, Mr. Puddin’ Tame?”

“H’m.” He peered down at the injured ankle. “How’s the foot?”

“A little—cold.”

“I’m afraid the wrench has interfered with the circulation. Poor child!”

“Really, it doesn’t hurt—not much.”

“I see you were born to be a heroine.”