“It is the day like this that strains my nerves,” the guard was saying. “When the surf is filled with people, even if some one goes under, there are a score of hands to give rescue, but that girl out there now, beyond the breakers, makes me uneasy.” “Swims like a fish,” responded the Antinous. “I’ve watched her for days.” “But she isn’t a fish, and if the realization came to her out there in the water, she’d be altogether like a woman.” “Since you are ill at ease about her, suppose I swim out, just to relieve your mind?” The guard nodded. There was the suspicion of a smile about his lips, but he continued to watch the woman in question. The distance to which the venturesome swimmer had gone was greater than had been apparent from the beach, and before Merrington had made half of it, the eyes of all those upon the sand and of those in the surf were upon the woman and himself. Only the swimmers themselves remained oblivious of the general interest. Merrington swam on with the free, easy strokes of one to whom deep water conveys no terrors. The very touch of the sea was tonic that July morning, and he stretched his sinuous limbs with the overbounding energy and delight of a perfect manhood. The thought of danger, even to another, seemed an absurd thing to him, so sang the lusty blood in his veins. Yet he swam with unerring, cleaving strokes after the woman, who still went outward. It was not until he had almost overtaken her that it occurred to him that it might be necessary to formulate an excuse for his following. The action had been so direct as to admit of no misunderstanding. Consequently, as she turned, and found him near her, Merrington spoke. “Miss Selwyn, if you will pardon me, it is not without danger that you come so far out from shore. My name is Merrington--Geoffrey Merrington.” She flushed slightly under the clear tan of her skin; then she bowed her crimson ’kerchiefed head gravely. “Thank you for your trouble, but I have never been drowned yet.” “Nor have I,” he affirmed, laughing, keeping stroke with her. “Nor do I want to be to-day.” For answer, she turned her back upon him, and deliberately swam seaward. Merrington followed. “Miss Selwyn,” he said, presently, when her audacity sent queer sensations about his heart, “may I remind you that this coast has many counter-currents? Believe me, you should not venture out further--not half so far.” If she heard, she made no sign of doing so. Merrington, with an added determination, cast a glance to shore, where he could see small forms standing together in a way that, even at that distance, spelled anxiety. He caught a glimpse of the guard, erect upon his observation stand. Then he threw out his splendid limbs in strokes that sent him beyond the girl, and, turning, faced her. “Miss Selwyn, the entire beach is watching us. They will send a boat for us in a moment, and compel our return.”