Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it that my cotton--that up to this has been so prone to reduce itself to rags--to-day should prove so tough? My despair forces from me a heavy sigh. "Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more. "You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me put you on your feet." "No," I answer, in an agony; "it _must_ give way soon. I shall do it, if--if--you will only turn your back to me again." It is death to my pride to have to make this request. I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch I am clinging to gives way with a crash. "Oh!" I shriek frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr. Carrington's outstretched arms. "Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious eyes, and still retaining his hold of me. "Yes, I am," I answered, tearfully. "Look at my arm." I pull up my sleeve cautiously and disclose an arm that looks indeed wonderfully white next the blood that trickles slowly from it. "Oh, horrible!" says our rich neighbor, with real and intense concern, and, taking out his handkerchief, proceeds to bind up my wound with the extremest tenderness. "Why didn't you let him take you down?" says Bill, reproachfully, who is rather struck by the blood. "It would have been better after all." "Of, course it would," says Mr. Carrington, raising his head for a moment from the contemplation of his surgical task to smile into my eyes. "But some little children are very foolish." "I was seventeen last May," I answered promptly. It is insufferable to be regarded as a child when one is almost eighteen. There is a touch of asperity in my tone. "Indeed! _So_ old?" says our friend, still smiling. "Mr. Carrington," I begin, presently, in a rather whimpering tone, "you won't say anything about this at home--_will_ you? You see, they--they might not like the idea of my climbing, and they would be angry. Of course I know it was very unladylike of me, and _indeed_"--very earnestly this--"I had no more intention of doing such a thing when I left home than I had of flying. Had I, Billy?" "You had not," says Billy. "I don't know what put the thought into your head. Why, it is two years since last you climbed a tree." This is a fearful lie; but the dear boy means well. "You won't betray me?" I say again to my kind doctor. "I would endure the tortures of the rack first," returns he, giving his bandage a final touch. "Be assured they shall never hear of it from me. You must not suspect me of being a tale-bearer, Miss Phyllis. Does your arm pain you still? have I made it more comfortable?"