“Take me up, I'se told.” Bug stretched up his arms appealingly, and Burgess, who knew nothing of babies, awkwardly lifted him up. “Tuddle me tlose like Vic do,” and the little one snuggled lovingly in the Professor's embrace. “Your toat's wet. Is Vic wet, too?” “Yes, little boy. We are all in trouble tonight.” Burgess had to say something. “In twouble? Umph--humph!” Bug shut his lips tightly, puffing out his cheeks, as was his habit. “I was in twouble, and I ist wented to Don Fonnybone. He's dood for twouble-ness. You go see him. Poor man!” and the little hand stroked Professor Burgess' feverish cheek. “If you'll run right back to bed, I'll do it,” Burgess declared. “We can learn even from children sometimes,” he thought, as Bug climbed down obediently and toddled away. Vincent Burgess went directly to Dr. Lloyd Fenneben, to whom he told the story of the day's events, including the interview with Bond Saxon. He did not repeat Bond's words regarding Vic, but only hinted at the suspicion that there was something questionable in the situation in which Vic was placed. Nor did he refer to the old man's maudlin demand that he should take care of Dennie if she were left fatherless, and of his sworn promise to do so. Burgess felt as, if the Dean's black eyes would burn through him, so steady was their gaze while the story was being told. When he had finished, Lloyd Fenneben said quietly: “You are worn out with the excitement of the day and night. Go home and rest now. I've learned through many a struggle, that what I cannot fight to a finish in the darkness, I can safely leave with God till the daylight comes.” The smile that lighted up the stern face and the firm handclasp with which Lloyd Fenneben dismissed the young man were things he remembered long afterward. And above all, he recalled many times a sense of secret shame that he should have felt degraded because of his association with Dennie Saxon on this day. But of this last, the memory was stronger than the present realization. Meanwhile, as the mad waters surged around the bend in the river, and swept over the shallows, Victor Burleigh flung his arm around Elinor Wream and leaped back from the very edge of doom. “We must climb the bluff again. Be a good Indian!” he cried, groping for a footing. Climbing the west bluff by daylight for the sake of adventure was very unlike this struggle in the darkness to escape the widening river, with a wind-driven torrent of rain sweeping down the land behind the first storm-fury, and Elinor Wream clung to her companion's arm almost helpless with fear. “Do you think you can ever get us out? she asked, as the limestone ledge blocked the way. “Do you know what my mother named me?” The carelessness of the tone was surprising. “Victor!” she replied.