The most likely place would be down by the river. Devotion to water, indigenous in the English boy, was a marked characteristic of Oswald. Jean made her way thither by the shortest route, which meant at the last a steep descent. Somewhat higher up, the stream flowed between rocky and overhanging strata, but here the banks were wide apart, leaving space for the water to spread itself out, rippling in a shallow flow over a floor of golden sand. Evenly placed lay the stepping-stones, square and large, reaching to the other side. Except in occasional flood-times, an easy mode of crossing was provided thereby. Jean thought so little of running over, that she would have done it in the dark, if required, without a moment's hesitation. A glimpse of the narrowing banks above could be obtained from the stepping-stone level. This Ripley Gorge, locally known as "The V-Gorge," was counted worth seeing by many who were conversant with Swiss scenery. One arm of the V began not far from the stepping-stones; and near the point of the V was the heaved-up rock promontory—like a coast-headland, only no sea washed its base—popularly called "The Brow." The small Devereux property, bounded on one side by this precipice, had from it and The Gorge combined the title of "Ripley Brow;" and village colloquialism had rendered "Up at the Brow" no less descriptive of the house than of the actual promontory. Jean raced down the slippery grass at a reckless pace, which yet was not reckless, since she was sure-footed as a goat. To follow the zigzag would have been in her eyes a dire waste of time. Nearing the bottom, she found to her supreme delight an open penknife lying on the ground—Oswald's! Then he had come this way, and she would find him. Jean's heart leaped as she secured the knife. In that moment she heard a plaintive utterance— "Oh! O please! Please!—O please! O come!" Not Oswald's voice! Jean dashed downward faster still. Child as she was, she already had the instinct of helping others, more or less the gift of all purer natures. "O please! O come!" wailed the frightened tones. Jean reached the level belt beside the river, where a ghost of a path might be found amid coarse grass and weeds. A rough but easy descent led thence to the stepping-stones. On one of the stones, near the middle of the stream, sat a small boy, lifting up a thin and high-pitched voice of dire tribulation. "Why, what's the matter?" cried Jean. The sobbing lessened, but the boy did not move. Jean cleared the lower bank at a run, and tripped over the stones till she reached him. "What's the matter?" she repeated. "I can't get on. I'm afraid," moaned the depressed little mortal. "There's nothing to hurt. If you fell in, you couldn't hurt. Afraid! You—a boy!" said Jean, with infinite disdain. She had been trained to look with contempt upon cowardice, especially a boy's cowardice. Oswald never showed fear; and Oswald was her hero.