"Certainly not, if you could swim, or if there was any one watching over your welfare from the banks that could." "Well, I can't," confesses Monica, with a sigh; "and unless _you_," with an irrepressible laugh that shows all her white and even teeth, "will promise to run along the banks of the river all the afternoon to watch over me, I don't think there is much chance of my escaping death." "I shouldn't mind in the least being on guard in such a cause," says the stranger, politely, with the same carefully suppressed smile upon his lips (which are very handsome) as had moved them a while ago. "Command me if you will; but I would have you remember that, even though I should come to the rescue, it would not save you an unpleasant ducking, and--and your pretty gown," with a glance that is almost affectionate at the white Indian cotton, "would be completely ruined." "Even that dire idea doesn't daunt me," says Monica, gayly: "you forgot that the more limp I am the more aesthetic I shall look. Well," with a sudden relapse into melancholy, "I suppose I must give it up, and not go round the corner to-day." "But _why_ not?" exclaims he, eagerly. "My boat is at your service. _Do_ take it. I have quite done with it, I have indeed, and it is lighter than it looks." "Too heavy for me, I am afraid," says Monica with a sigh. "Is it? Then," with desperate boldness, "let _me_ row you." "Oh, _no_!" returns she, blushing warmly. "You forget," with a swift glance at him, "you are quite a stranger to me." Yet he is not quite such a stranger as she thinks. She is not such a stranger to him at least, because her face, seen for a minute about a week a go, has haunted him persistently ever since. "As we live in the same neighborhood, we cannot long continue strangers," he says, gently; "and, in the mean time, why lose this lovely afternoon, and that corner you were speaking of? The view of the sea, when you get round it, is really worth seeing." "Yes, yes, I daresay," reluctantly turning to leave him. "I shall see it some day." "Look here," says the young man, very earnestly, following her as she moves. "If you will come with me you will see it _now_. I will only be your oarsman; I won't say a word to you unless you wish it; I won't even _look_ at you. Think of me as a common boatman you have hired by the hour; or, better still, don't think of me at all. With a little care you might bring yourself to imagine I wasn't there." "But if we met any one?" says Miss Beresford, visibly relenting. "Impossible! There is never a soul on this stream save myself. I have been here now every day for ten days, and never yet came upon even the ghost of anything human." "Very well," says Monica, though still with palpable hesitation. "Now, remember, you have pledged yourself not to speak to me, or to look at me." At this he fixes on her so prolonged a gaze that one may readily understand he means it to be a last one for some time.