“You say a great deal that you do not think,” Insie answered, quietly, yet turning round to show her face again. “I have heard that gentlemen always do; and I suppose that you are a young gentleman.” “I should hope so indeed. Don't you know who I am? I am Lancelot Yordas Carnaby.” “Why, you look quite as if you could stop the river,” she answered, with a laugh, though she felt his grandeur. “I suppose you consider me nobody at all. But I must get my water.” “You shall not carry water. You are much too pretty. I will carry it for you.” Pet was not “introspective;” otherwise he must have been astonished at himself. His mother and aunt would have doubted their own eyes if they had beheld this most dainty of the dainty, and mischievous of the mischievous (with pain and passion for the moment vanquished), carefully carrying an old brown pitcher. Yet this he did, and wonderfully well, as he believed; though Insie only laughed to see him. For he had on the loveliest gaiters in the world, of thin white buckskin with agate buttons, and breeches of silk, and a long brocaded waistcoat, and a short coat of rich purple velvet, also a riding hat with a gray ostrich plume. And though he had very little calf inside his gaiters, and not much chest to fill out his waistcoat, and narrower shoulders than a velvet coat deserved, it would have been manifest, even to a tailor, that the boy had lineal, if not lateral, right to his rich habiliments. Insie of the Gill (who seemed not to be of peasant birth, though so plainly dressed), came gently down the steep brook-side to see what was going to be done for her. She admired Lancelot, both for bravery of apparel and of action; and she longed to know how he would get a good pitcher of water without any splash upon his clothes. So she stood behind a little bush, pretending not to be at all concerned, but amused at having her work done for her. But Pet was too sharp to play cat's-paw for nothing. “Smile, and say 'thank you,'” he cried, “or I won't do it. I am not going up to my middle for nothing; I know that you want to laugh at me.” “You must have a very low middle,” said Insie; “why, it never comes half way to my knees.” “You have got no stockings, and no new gaiters,” Lancelot answered, reasonably; and then, like two children, they set to and laughed, till the gill almost echoed with them. “Why, you're holding the mouth of the pitcher down stream!” Insie could hardly speak for laughing. “Is that how you go to fill a pitcher?” “Yes, and the right way too,” he answered; “the best water always comes up the eddies. You ought to be old enough to know that.” “I don't know anything at all--except that you are ruining your best clothes.” “I don't care twopence for such rubbish. You ought to see me on a Sunday, Insie, if you want to know what is good. There, you never drew such a pitcher as that. And I believe there is a fish in the bottom of it.”