arly was, while you stood,
with your hands in your pockets, looking on."

"If your people see fit to throw open the mere to the rabble, the rabble
must take care of itself," he answered. "I daresay I can risk my life,
with an adequate motive. That--isn't one."

The words, audible to many of the bystanders, the contemptuous tone, and
nod of the head in the direction of the ever-increasing group on the
bank, deepened the prevailing indignation. Angry murmurs arose, and
some "booing." Perhaps the presence of the Squire's daughter alone
restrained this demonstration from taking a more active form of
hostility; or it may even have been a something in the hard, bronzed
face and firm build of the man who had just been publicly dubbed
"coward."

"For shame!" hotly retorted the girl. "I have no wish to talk to you
any more, or ever again. Please go."

He made no reply. Lifting his hat ceremoniously he turned away. A few
yards' glide brought him to the bank. He sat down, deliberately removed
his skates, lit a cigar, then started upon his way; the no-longer
restrained jeers which followed him falling upon his ears with no other
effect than to cause him to congratulate himself upon having given
others the opportunity of performing the feat from which he had
refrained.

The subject of all this disturbance was showing signs of restoration to
life and consciousness. Seen in the midst of the gaping--and for the
most part useless--crowd which hemmed him in, he was an urchin of about
thirteen or fourteen, with a debased type of countenance wherein the
characteristics of the worst phase of guttersnipe--low cunning,
predatoriness, boundless impudence, and aggressive brutality--showed
more than incipient. Such a countenance was it, indeed, as to suggest
that the rescue of its owner from a watery death went far to prove the
truth of a certain homely proverb relating to hanging and drowning. And
now, gazing upon it, Violet Courtland was conscious of an unpleasant
truth in those last words spoken by her _fiance_. She was forced to own
to herself that the saving of this life assuredly was not worth the
risking of his. Yet she had implored him to do something towards the
rescue, and he had done nothing. He had replied that there was nothing
to be done; had stood, calmly looking on while others had risked their
lives, he fearing for his. Yes, _fearing_. It looked like that.

And yet--and yet! She knew but little of his pa