ps. It
isn't a safe place for children, you see. How are you now, old chap? He
was a bit dizzy when I picked him up, you see."

Merton lifted his black head, and looked ruefully at Margaret.

"You told me not to go!" he said. "I won't go again."

"Well, I guess you won't!" cried Basil, excitedly. "Why, you've been in
all over; it's all up to your chin, and some of it's on the back of your
head. I say, you must--"

The young man made him a sign quickly. "He's all right!" he said. "Mud
baths extremely hygienic; recommended by the medical fraternity;
a--where did you say I should put him?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" cried Margaret. "I am letting you hold him all
this time, and you are getting all wet, too."

"No consequence, not the least in the world. Besides,--past participle
perhaps more appropriate than present."

Margaret led the way to the verandah, and the stranger finally deposited
his burden on the steps. Looking down at himself, he seemed for the
first time aware of his singular appearance, for he blushed, and,
lifting his cap, was turning away with a muttered apology, in which the
word "clothes" was the only word Margaret could hear.

"Oh!" she cried, "you are not going yet! I--I have not thanked you! You
have saved the child's life, I know you have. I--I have seen something
of that bog," she shuddered. "Mr. Montfort will want to see you, and
thank you himself. Do at least tell me your name, so that we may know
who it is that has done us this great service."

But here the young man caught sight of his face, reflected in a
window-pane, and lost the last vestige of self-possession. "If--if
you'll excuse me," he cried, "I think I'll go before Mr. Montfort comes.
The costume of a Mohawk on the war-path--effective, but unusual;
a--call to-morrow if I may, to see if the little chap is all right. Mr.
Montfort kindly asked me--good day!"

"But you haven't told her your name!" Basil shouted after him.

"Oh! Of course!--a--Merryweather! Gerald Merryweather."

CHAPTER X.

"I MUST HELP MYSELF."

"DEAR MARGARET:

"I find a telegram here which obliges me to run
on to Philadelphia at once. I may be away all
the week; do as well as you can, dear child,
and don't let B., M., and S. D. tear you to
pieces. I forgot to tell you that the young man
in charge of the bog-draining turns out to be
the son of an old friend of mine, Miles
Me