and as such we verily believe he had almost forgotten his own original name. Hardingstone was soon sufficiently recovered to walk back to his hotel, and with his strong frame and constitution scouted the idea of any ill effects arising from what he called “a mere ducking.” Once, however, on their way home, he pressed Charlie’s hand, and with a tear in his eye--strange emotion for him to betray--whispered, “Charlie, you’ve the pluck of the devil; you’ve saved my life, and I shall never forget it.” We are an undemonstrative people: on the stage, or in a book, here would have been an opportunity for a perfect oration about gratitude, generosity, and eternal friendship; but not so in real life; we cannot spare more than a sentence to acknowledge our rescue from ruin or destruction, and we are so afraid of being thought “humbugs,” that we make even that sentence as cold as possible. Mrs. Kettering, though, was a lady of a different disposition. She was in a terrible taking when her nephew returned, and she observed the feverish remains of past excitement, which the boy was unable to conceal. Bit by bit she drew from him the whole history of his gallant efforts to save Hardingstone, and the narrow escape they both had of drowning; and as Charlie finished his recital, and Blanche’s eyes sparkled through her tears in admiration of his heroism, Mrs. Kettering rang the bell twice for Gingham, and went off into strong hysterics. “Dear me, miss, how providential!” said the Abigail, an hour or so afterwards, popping her head into the drawing-room, where Blanche and Charlie were awaiting news of his aunt, having left her to “keep quiet”--“Dr. Globus is down here for a holiday, and Missus bid me send for him if she wasn’t any better, and now she _isn’t_ any better. What shall I do?” “Send for him, I should think,” said Charlie, and forthwith despatched a messenger in quest of the doctor, whilst Blanche ran up-stairs to mamma’s room with a beating heart and an aching presentiment, such as often foretells too truly the worst we have to apprehend. The curtains were drawn round Mrs. Kettering’s bed, and Blanche, hoping it might only be one of the nervous attacks to which her mother was subject, put them gently aside to see if she was sleeping. Even that young, inexperienced girl was alarmed at the dark flush on the patient’s face, and the heavy snorting respirations she seemed to draw with such difficulty. “O mamma, mamma!” said she, laying her head on the pillow by her mother’s side, “what is it? I beseech you to tell me! Dear mamma, what can we do to help you?”