“Mr. Peter Berkley’s child. I don’t know what happened. She was standing in the water and fainted just as I came along to fish,” said Kit. Little Anne opened her eyes with a sigh. “Was it enough? Is it all right?” she murmured and closed her eyes again. “It was a heap too much, little Anne,” said Kit, tenderly. “Help me get off her wet dress and lend me something to wrap around her, can’t you? Haven’t you a coat?” “I have a blanket which I use when I sleep in the store,” said the druggist. “Easy to see you have no little girls, Mr. Carrington. Now I have; two. You unbutton their dresses this way.” “Oh, please don’t, Kit! I’d much rather be undressed at home,” little Anne implored. “You shall be. Only this wet dress, Nancy-Bell, and then I’ll roll you up in a blanket----” “Seventy times as high as the moon,” murmured little Anne, feebly submitting. “Another ‛wee deoch and doris,’ Anne!” said Kit putting the teaspoon to her lips. And this time little Anne could help herself. Kit rolled her up in the blanket which the druggist produced and which he could not help being glad to see was a bright-coloured Navajo; he wanted little Anne to be wrapped in something cheerful. “I’ll be back to-morrow and bring the blanket and some money. I haven’t any with me. I beg your pardon for cussing you, but time counts in such a case--so does a stimulant!” said Kit, as he shouldered his precious burden and went away. Little Anne rallied enough to want to explain. “It was penance, Kit, dear,” she said. “I did a fearful thing to Peter-two and he couldn’t forgive me yet. He told me to do penance and said stand in the river when I said what kind. He wouldn’t kiss me. So I did it. It’s a cold, an _awful_ cold penance, Kit!” Little Anne shuddered. “Oh, little Anne, didn’t you know Peter didn’t mean that? Fancy, penance! It sure _was_ cold! What a foolish child you were! If only it hasn’t harmed you! Were you there long?” demanded Kit, anxiously. “I don’t know; I think so. Peter-two gets home half-past two, or something, and I went pretty soon. I’m sleepy, Kit. Is Mother worried? I forgot my mother.” Anne spoke wearily. “Dear, I don’t know about going to sleep; perhaps it would harm you. You see I don’t know what it might do to you. Keep awake, little Anne! Let me tell you how worried your Cricket was about you, and how he tried to say there was something wrong.” Kit accompanied the homeward journey with chatter about the beagle to which little Anne faithfully strove to listen, but her heavy lids would not stay open. When Mrs. Berkley, her husband, Peter, crowded to the door with terror-stricken faces, seeing Kit coming and what he bore, little Anne was asleep. “Kit?” Mrs. Berkley managed the word, but could ask no more. “I don’t know, Mrs. Berkley; she’s not hurt; she may be harmed,” Kit answered her.