George had not been drowning. He had been creeping gingerly from stepping-stone to stepping-stone. The endeavour had been to come as close as possible to the big rock upon which he intended to spring. The less the distance of the leap the more remote the chance of slipping down the rock and being whirled off in swift water. It is a method of progression by which, in the race of existence, many lives are lost. The timid will hobble from stone to stone, landing at each forward point more and yet more shaky in the knees. The torrent roars about them. Sick they grow and giddy; stepping-stones are green and slimy; the effort of balancing cannot be unduly prolonged. Ere ever they feel themselves ready for the leap they slip, go whirling and drowning downstream past the stepping-stones that are called Infirmity of Purpose. Or they may creep close enough the rock, only to find they have delayed over their hobbling progression until the rock is already so crowded by others who have been bolder over the stones as to show no foothold remaining. They leap and fall back. We are all gifted with strength sufficient for that spring; but disaster awaits him who scatters his energies in a hundred hesitating little scrambles. Now George sprang; poised upon that last “because.” “And because--I wish--” He sprang--“Therefore I suggest that I should go to town to-day and search every agency until I find you a lady I think suitable.” The thud of his landing knocked the breath out of him. In terror he lay lest Mr. Marrapit's answering words should have the form of desperate fellows who would hurl him from his hold, throw him back. “I agree,” Mr. Marrapit said. George was drawn to his feet. He could have whooped for joy. “I agree. I have misjudged you. In this matter I lay my trust in you. Take it, tend it, nurse it; cherish it so that it may not be returned to me cold and dead. Speed forth.” “Have I a free hand?” George asked. “Emphatically no. Every effort must be made to keep down expenses. Here are two shillings. Render account. As to salary--” George burst out: “Oh, she'll come for anything.” Mr. Marrapit started. “She? Whom?” George threw a blanket to hide the hideous blunder. “Told of such a home as this is,” he explained, “a true lady would come for anything.” The blunder sank, covered. “I earnestly pray that may be so,” Mr. Marrapit said. “I doubt. Rapacity and greed stalk the land. Mrs. Major had five-and-twenty pounds per annum. I will not go above that figure.” George told him: “Rely upon me. But, by a free hand I meant a free hand as to engaging what I may think a suitable person.” “Emphatically no. You are the lower court. Sift sheep from goats. Send sheep here to me. I am the tribunal. I will finally select.”