Cook reached the bank with the child in her arms just at the same moment as the man, who leaped off the barge, carrying Ned, whose eyes were closed and head drooping over the man's shoulder. "Oh, my poor darling boy!" wailed Cook. "He's dead--he's dead!" "Not he, missus," cried the bargeman. "I hooked him out too sharp. Here, hold up, young master. Don't you cry, little missy; he's on'y swallowed more water than's good for him. Now then, perk up, my lad." Poor Ned's eyes opened at this, and he stared wildly at the man, then, as if utterly bewildered, at Cook, and lastly at Tizzy, who clung sobbing to him, where he had been laid on the grass, streaming with water. "Tiz!" he cried faintly. "Teddy! Teddy!" she wailed. "Oh, don't die! What would poor Mamma do?" "Die?" he said confusedly. "Why--what? Here," he cried, as recollection came back with a rush, "oh, Tizzy, don't say you've lost the kite!" "Lost the kite!" cried Cook, furiously now. "Oh, you wicked, wicked boy! What will your Mar say?" "As she was precious glad I was a-comin' by," said the man, grinning. "There: don't scold the youngster, missus. It was all an accident, wasn't it, squire? But, I say, next time you climb a tree don't you trust them poplars, for they're as brittle as sere-wood. There: you're all right now, aren't you?" "Yes," said Ned. "Did you pull me out?" "To be sure I did." "Then there's a threepenny-piece for you," said Ned. "I haven't got any more." "Then you put it back in your pocket, my lad, to buy something for your little sis. I don't want to be paid for that." "You wait till his poor Mar comes home," cried Cook excitedly, "and I'm sure she'll give you a bit of gold." "Nay," growled the man. "I've got bairns of my own. I don't want to be paid. Yes, I do," he said quickly; "will you give me a kiss, little one, for pulling brother out?" Tizzy's face lit up with smiles, as she held up her hands to be caught up, and the next moment her little white face was pressed against a brown one, her arms closing round the bargeman's neck, as she kissed him again and again. "Thank you, thank you, sir," she babbled. "It was so good of you, and I love you very, very much." "Hah!" sighed the man, as he set her down softly. "Now take brother's hand and run home with him to get some dry clothes. Morning, missus. He won't hurt." He turned away sharply and went back to his barge, from which he looked at the little party running across the meadow, Cook sobbing and laughing as she held the children's hands tightly in her own. "And such a great, big, ugly man, ma'am," Cook said to her mistress, when she was telling all what had passed. The tears of thankfulness were standing in Mrs Lester's eyes, and several of them dropped like pearls, oddly enough, just as she was thinking that the outsides of diamonds are sometimes very rough. CHAPTER THREE. A GRATEFUL INDIAN, BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.