d Maude Falconer, looking not at the dog but at
Stafford, for his face, which had been red with exertion a moment ago,
had become suddenly pale.

"I don't know--no!" he said, absently, all his thoughts centered on the
dog.

He wiped it as dry as he could with his blazer, then turning aside, he
opened his shirt and put the cold morsel in his bosom.

"Poor little beggar, he's like ice!" he said, in a low voice. "He would
never have got to the shore; he's so small. If I'd some brandy! We'll
get some at the ferry. Can you row?"

"No," she said. "Yes; I mean, I'll try."

He held out his hand.

"Mind how you cross. Take off your gloves first, or you'll blister your
hands."

She obeyed, her eyes downcast. They exchanged places and he showed her
how to hold the sculls.

"You'll do very well. You can row as slowly as you like. He's alive; I
can feel him move! Poor little chap! Sorry to trouble you, Miss
Falconer, but the only chance of saving him is to keep him warm."

She was silent far a moment, then she glanced at him.

"You're fond of dogs?"

"Why, of course," he answered. "Aren't you?"

"Y-es; but I don't think I'd risk pneumonia for one. You were
feverishly hot just now, and that little beast must be stone cold;
you'll get bronchitis or something, Mr. Orme."

"Not I!" he laughed, almost scornfully. "He's pulling round, poor
little beast! Here we are."

He reached for his coat and wrapped the terrier in it, and quite
unconscious of the girl's watchful eyes, held the little black-and-tan
head to his face for a moment.

"All right now?" he murmured. "You've had a narrow squeak for it, old
chappie!" With the dog under his arm, he helped Maude Falconer ashore
and led the way to the hotel.

"Tea," he said to the waiter; "but bring me some brandy and milk
first--and look sharp."

Maude sank on to one of the benches in the beautiful garden in the
centre of the lake and looked straight before her; and Stafford cuddled
the dog up to him and looked impatiently for the waiter, greeting him
when he came with:

"What an infernal time you're been!"

Then he poured a little of the brandy down the dog's throat, and
bending over him repeated the close three or four times; and presently
the mite stirred and moved its head, and opening its eyes looked up
into Stafford's, and weakly putting out its tongue, licked his hand.

Stafford laughed--for the well-known reason.

"Plucky little chap, isn't he?" he said, with