“That other place” lay farther up the river. It was a quiet spot, shaded by over-hanging branches. He strode to it in his rubber boots, his walking shoes hung across his shoulders by their knotted lacings. He walked in the water, finding it more comfortable with his boots on than land; he noticed how cold the river was still, although there had been several days of considerable warmth. “Well, now for a last try!” Kit thought as he came to the spot which he had in mind. There on the river bank sat Cricket piteously whining. “Anne! Little Anne!” shouted Kit. Mid-stream stood little Anne, her skirts gathered up in her hands, her bare, slender legs shaking beneath her as the ice-cold river lapped them to the knees. When Kit called her name she turned to him a disfigured, tear-swollen face and fell forward into the water. He strode out to her and gathered her up in his arms. She was unconscious and her poor little body was as cold as the dead. “Oh, Lord, and so far from everything!” thought Kit. He did not dally to consider. Casting away his rod and basket he set out on a run toward the town, holding Anne close to his breast. Cricket streamed after them, but Kit had been a sprinter and an all-around athlete; the beagle’s short bowed legs stood no chance at keeping up. It seemed to Kit that he made no sort of time; he cursed his impeding rubber boots fervently; in reality, he covered the distance to the nearest drug store at a record speed. He laid little Anne on the counter, still unconscious, and supported her head on one arm. “Brandy!” he gasped. “Artificial respiration,” said the bland but frightened druggist, prompt with first-aid knowledge. “She’s not drowned; it’s exhaustion. She fainted, fell into the river. Brandy, man! Don’t stop to talk!” Kit ordered. “You know, Mr. Carrington, I can’t sell brandy without a doctor’s prescription,” said the druggist with finality. It is certain that Kit’s exclamation was accounted to him as righteousness, for it sprang from love for little Anne. “Give it and don’t sell it then, you idiot!” he said, savagely. “Give the child brandy and I’ll give you a present later. Good heavens, is this child to lie here in this state while I stalk a doctor? Who’s to know what’s done here, anyway? You use my name; you know me. I’ll be responsible. But I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do to you if you don’t get a move on you, quick! And I’m some boxer, if you want to know.” Kit glared furiously at the small man with the timorous air and the druggist got down a bottle. “It’s the law, Mr. Carrington; I’m not to blame, and I certainly don’t want to get into trouble breaking laws,” he said, pouring a little brandy into a glass. “Get a spoon,” Kit ordered, disregarding him. He poured the liquor down little Anne’s throat and chafed her wrists. The druggist rubbed her legs. “What happened to her?” he ventured to ask, plainly doubtful of Kit’s patience. “Who is she?”