gazing about her, then with a low sigh she hastened away.

Two weary miles lay between the little country town and the cheerless home of Doctor Lynne whom she looked upon as an own father; but the hard-hearted mistress of the house could never stand in the place of a mother to the lonely girl. She was thinking of it now as she hastened over the hard, frozen road, the sun sinking slowly out of sight in the gloomy west, a light fall of snow beginning slowly to descend.

"How I wish I were rich!" she exclaimed, half aloud; "then I would not live in a place like this, away from the world. And I would have my own carriage and need not walk. It must be delightful to have all the money you wish, and not have to wear the same old gown forever—a dyed old gown, too, which is positively hideous."

She drew the gayly colored plaid shawl that she wore closer about her shoulders to keep out the chill evening air, and she shuddered involuntarily as her eyes fell upon the ugly wrap. The girl was an artist by nature, and anything incongruous or out of harmony jarred upon her like a shock, while any unfortunate mistake in the blending of colors would send a chill through her artistic soul.

"Oh, dear! I wish my fairy prince would come!" she cried, half laughingly, "and rescue me from my unpleasant surroundings. My fairy prince! Like the princes in the story-books, he must be young, rich, and handsome; courteous and—and everything nice. He must be tall and graceful, with soft dark eyes, and hair as black as midnight; a sweet mouth, but firm and resolute, and a determined chin. I have seen a picture like that—where was it? Oh, yes; in Mrs. Lynne's photograph album. I asked her who it was, and she told me that it was no concern of mine. To be sure, it was not; but then I only asked a civil answer to a harmless question. Ah, Mrs. Lynne! you will be the death of me yet—you and your ugly daughter! Serena Lynne and I can never live as sisters. The thought of it makes me long for the coming of my Prince Charming, who will take me away to peace and happiness. I wish my own father would come for me. I wish my own mother had not died. I—I—Good gracious! what is that?"

She came to a frightened halt, gazing about her with terror-dilated eyes. A few rods before her a little river remained to be crossed—a narrow stream, but very deep and with a very rapid current. Spanning the stream was a dilapidated bridge, which had already been condemned for the use of vehicles; but still a few venturesome pedestrians trusted their lives upon its frail strength. Beatrix had crossed upon the bridge; she had fully expected to return in that way; but now, as she came to a frightened halt, the sound of a horse's feet broke the silence, and she beheld an unexpected scene. Just before her, half-way over the bridge, she saw a big black horse, and upon his back a man—a young man—a stranger in that vicinity. He was crossing the dilapidated structure without a suspicion that it was unsafe. Even as the girl's eyes fell upon the scene, crash! went the rotten timbers. There was a wild cry, a rush through space, then the thud of a falling body as man and horse struck the swift-flowing current below. The horse, once freed from its rider, swam swiftly toward the shore and reached the opposite bank, up which it scrambled and soon disappeared. Pale and trembling, the girl crept close to the river-bank, and glanced over. She could see that tall, dark form battling manfully with the waves; the river was deepest and swiftest at this point—the water ice-cold. If the swimmer was able to keep up for a time, he must soon succumb to the cold, half-frozen element. She stood transfixed with horror, her eyes riveted upon the dark figure rising and falling with the current as he strove to keep himself afloat, and made a desperate fight for life.

"Heaven have mercy!" cried the girl; "must he die there alone? Oh, what shall I do? What can I do?"

There was no one within a mile of the spot. Long before she could summon help he would have sunk to the bottom, chilled through and through. How could he long persist in his mad efforts to save himself? All at once an inspiration rushed into the girl's heart—a slim chance, but it seemed the only one. Fortunately, the stream, though so deep and swift, was not wide. Her plan seemed feasible. Removing the long, stout shawl from her shivering shoulders, she crept to the very edge of the bank and leaned over. The swimmer was nearly paralyzed from the cold, and was fast giving up; but his eyes fell upon the girl, and he saw at once what she was trying to do.

"Can you swim near enough to reach it?" she called aloud.

For answer he made one more desperate effort; then she saw for the first time that he had been injured in some way by the falling timbers—one of his limbs seemed nearly useless. But with superhuman efforts he strove to swim within reach of that bright colored banner streaming out upon the water. A little nearer—a little nearer! He was faint and chilled to the bone.

She leaned far over the brink of the stream, her teeth set hard together, her eyes flashing with resolution.

"Try!" she cried once more in her clear, cheery voice. "Don't give up yet. Try—try hard!"

One more desperate plunge and he had caught the strong woolen fabric in both chilled, numb hands. Could she tow him to shore? Would she have strength—that frail, slight creature? She stepped slowly backward, and with all her might pulled upon the impromptu rope.

Moments passed, which seemed hours to Beatrix Dane, but she did not give up. Her face was set and pale, the little white teeth shut closely down upon her under lip, her hands grasped the shawl with a strength born of desperation.

And so at last the deed was done; the body of the man—for he was quite unconscious now—was dragged to shore, and Beatrix Dane stooped and gazed into the still, white face. She fell back with a cry of astonishment. It was the face of her dreams—her imaginary hero, her fairy prince. His eyes were closed, but there was the hair as black as midnight, the straight, delicate features, the small, firm mouth, half hidden by the silky black mustache, the graceful figure. He was all that her fancy had painted; he was a facsimile of the picture that had pleased her so.

She gazed upon the still, white face, and her heart thrilled with a strange and unaccountable feeling; a subtle happiness seemed to pervade her being.

"How handsome he is!" she exclaimed. "And oh! what can I do to restore him to consciousness? Poor fellow! he will freeze."

The cold, chilly winds of November were straying about through the bare, bleak country-side; they swept over the drenched form lying upon the cold ground. And Beatrix's heart grew chill as a horrible fear assailed her that he would soon be frozen to death. His clothing was literally freezing upon his body. Her shawl, the only warm garment which she possessed, was dripping with water; she wrung out its folds as well as she could, and hung it upon a neighboring bush to dry. Then she glanced around her; she must find some way to warm him, or he would perish there before her. Her eyes fell upon the package which lay upon the ground near by; the package containing the material for her new dress—the first new dress that she had had in a whole year. The soft, warm folds of merino would help to keep the life within his chilled frame. There was no help for it, the dress must go. Tearing open the wrapper, she drew forth the pretty garnet merino, and not without a little pang, as she remembered the rebuke which Mrs. Lynne would have in store for her, she wound the warm folds about his neck and chest.

Utterly unprotected herself,