“I don’t think I can do that, Frank. I don’t like breaking in upon my regular work; and, indeed, I don’t care very much for skating. It must be very pleasant for a really good skater, who can wheel about like a bird, and perform all those intricate figures; otherwise, especially the first day or two of the season, it is very fatiguing and straining. If I could put by my books for a month, I would devote myself to it with all my heart, but for one or two days the pleasure does not pay for the pain. Look, Frank! there is something the matter.” A knot of people were standing together at the edge of the water, apparently watching some small black object upon the ice, but it was already too dusk for the friends, until they came quite close, to see what was the matter. A small dog had run out upon the ice, which was in most places quite strong enough to bear it, but there were many patches, over the powerful springs which well-up in parts of the Serpentine, where the ice had as yet formed a mere skin. On one of these treacherous places the little animal had run, and had at once gone through. All round it the ice was extremely thin, and, as the dog endeavoured to scramble out, it broke under its fore-paws, until a good-sized space of water was cleared, round which the poor little animal kept swimming. Had it continued its efforts only in the line towards the shore, the dog would speedily have broken its way to stronger ice. This, however, it had not sense to do, although the men called and whistled to it, and endeavoured in every way to encourage it to swim towards them. But the poor thing continued swimming round and round in its narrow circle, making occasional efforts to get out, but only falling back again, and giving from time to time a pitiful whimper. Its mistress, a little girl of about ten years old, was crying bitterly. “This is very painful, Prescott,” Frank Maynard said, after looking on for some time in silence; “the poor little brute’s cries go through me.” “Come away, Frank,” Prescott said, turning to go. “I don’t know that I ever saw anything more pitiful. Let us get away; it is impossible to do anything for him.” Frank did not move, but stood looking on irresolutely. At last he said— “It’s no use, I can’t help it. Here, Prescott, take my coat and waistcoat, I must go in for it.” “Nonsense, Frank. My dear fellow, it would be madness!” Frank paid no attention to his friend’s remonstrances, but sat down on the gravel, and began to unlace his boots. He was however anticipated. There was a movement among the crowd near, and a lad of about fourteen, without jacket or boots, stepped into the water, breaking the ice as he did so, amidst a general cheer and some few expostulations from the crowd. Frank Maynard pushed forward impetuously to the spot. “Can you swim well, my boy?” he asked. “Ay,” the boy answered; “I bathe in the Serpentine every morning, winter and summer, except when it’s frozen.”