He tried to catch a glimpse of the slim leg through the dancing water. It swung back in vigorous embarrassment. "The other ankle, then?" "Ye-es." "I'm awfully sorry. Can't I do something?" "I think I'll go home." "But you can't walk." "I think so. Isn't this just too tiresome? I _will_ walk." She rose to her feet at the word, but, once there, gave a cry, and stood tottering. His arm caught her about the waist. "Where do you live? Near here anywhere?" "Oh, yes; just up the lane. But it might as well be ten miles." Her brave laugh was half a sob. "Not a bit of it! Hold tight." She flushed and gave an astonished wriggle as she found herself lifted and borne up the lane. "Don't squirm so, child," he ordered. "You're carrying me!" "Oh, no! We're playing lawn-tennis." "Goodness! You fairly _grabbed_ me." "Perhaps I ought to have asked your permission, but if I had you might have refused it." She laughed. "I think I should." "It's too late now," he said contentedly. "Does the foot hurt?" "Not much, thank you--thank you, Mr.----" He was obdurately silent. She tried again. "Thank you, Mr. ----. Please, what's your name?" "'Puddin' Tame,'" he laughed. "'Where do you live?'" she chanted delightedly. "'Down the lane.' No, _you_ live down the lane." "It isn't far now. Are you tired?" "Oh, no! I'm doing very well, thank you." "Perhaps you'd better rest." "By no means. I hope you live over the hills and far away." "You aren't bashful, are you, Mr. Puddin' Tame?" "H'm." He peered down at the injured ankle. "How's the foot?" "A little--cold." "I'm afraid the wrench has interfered with the circulation. Poor child!" "Really, it doesn't hurt--not much." "I see you were born to be a heroine." "And you're a 'knight comes riding by, riding by, riding by'----" "'So early in the morning,'" he finished. "If the knight were sure you thought so"--his eyes were on her cheek--"he might claim a knight's reward." She fell abruptly silent. The Maryland spring was well advanced, and the path along which they moved was carpeted with flowers. The blue bells of the wild myrtle swung almost at their feet. Scarlet runners rioted over the low stone wall at their hand. The sycamores and oaks were clothed in tenderest green. Beyond the left-hand wall, rows of peach-trees marched away, flaunting banners of pink and white. Fessenden heard the tinkle of the brook, winding in the shadow of overhanging banks. Sights and sounds lulled him. He felt himself in harmony with the quiet mood of the girl in his arms. Truly this was an unexpected adventure! His eyes rested upon the piquant face so near his own. It possessed a refinement of outline that was belied by the humble fashion of her gown and by the position in which he had surprised her. The precocious daughter of a farmer, perhaps, or at best the neglected child of one of the war-ruined "first families of the South."