ound that
corner over there," pointing to it, "to see what was at the other side,
and now I can't do it." It seems to the young man looking at her, as
though her glance is reproachful, and as if she connects him, innocent
as he is, with her disappointment.

"There is no reason why you shouldn't," he is beginning, anxiously, when
she contradicts him.

"After all," she says, doubtfully, bending over to look into the clear
bed of the river, "I don't believe, if things came to the worst, and I
_did_ get swamped, I should be drowned."

"Certainly not, if you could swim, or if there was any one watching over
your welfare from the banks that could."

"Well, I can't," confesses Monica, with a sigh; "and unless _you_," with
an irrepressible laugh that shows all her white and even teeth, "will
promise to run along the banks of the river all the afternoon to watch
over me, I don't think there is much chance of my escaping death."

"I shouldn't mind in the least being on guard in such a cause," says the
stranger, politely, with the same carefully suppressed smile upon his
lips (which are very handsome) as had moved them a while ago. "Command
me if you will; but I would have you remember that, even though I should
come to the rescue, it would not save you an unpleasant ducking,
and--and your pretty gown," with a glance that is almost affectionate at
the white Indian cotton, "would be completely ruined."

"Even that dire idea doesn't daunt me," says Monica, gayly: "you forgot
that the more limp I am the more aesthetic I shall look. Well," with a
sudden relapse into melancholy, "I suppose I must give it up, and not go
round the corner to-day."

"But _why_ not?" exclaims he, eagerly. "My boat is at your service. _Do_
take it. I have quite done with it, I have indeed, and it is lighter
than it looks."

"Too heavy for me, I am afraid," says Monica with a sigh.

"Is it? Then," with desperate boldness, "let _me_ row you."

"Oh, _no_!" returns she, blushing warmly. "You forget," with a swift
glance at him, "you are quite a stranger to me."

Yet he is not quite such a stranger as she thinks. She is not such a
stranger to him at least, because her face, seen for a minute about a
week a go, has haunted him persistently ever since.

"As we live in the same neighborhood, we cannot long continue
strangers," he says, gently; "and, in the mean time, why lose this
lovely afternoon, and that corner you were speaking of? The view of the