"Good heavens!" cried Mr. M'Gabbery, as he dashed boldly into the flood, thereby splashing the water well up into Caroline's face. There was not much occasion for this display, for the gentleman could have assisted the lady quite as effectually without even wetting his toes; but common misfortunes do create common sympathies--or at least they should do. Would it not be natural that Miss Waddington and Mr. M'Gabbery, when both wet through up to their knees, should hang together in their sufferings, make common cause of it, talk each of what the other felt and understood so well? Nay, might it not be probable that, in obedience to the behests of some wise senior, they might be sent back to the city together;--understand, O reader, that the wall of Jerusalem had never yet been distant from them half a mile--back, we say, together to get dry stockings? To achieve such an object, Mr. M'Gabbery would have plunged bodily beneath the wave--had the wave been deep enough to receive his body. As it was, it only just came over the tops of his boots, filling them comfortably with water. "Oh, Mr. M'Gabbery!" exclaimed the ungrateful lady. "Now you have drowned me altogether." "I never saw anything so awkward in my life," said M'Gabbery, looking up at Bertram with a glance that should have frozen his blood. "Nor I, either," said Caroline. "What had you better do? Pray give me your hand, Miss Waddington. To leave you in such a manner as that! We managed better in the desert, did we not, Miss Waddington? You really must go back to Jerusalem for dry shoes and stockings; you really must. Where is Miss Baker? Give me your hand, Miss Waddington; both hands, you had better." So much said Mr. M'Gabbery while struggling in the pool of Siloam. But in the meantime, Miss Waddington, turning quickly round, had put out her hand to Bertram, who was standing--and I regret to say all but laughing--on the rock above her; and before Mr. M'Gabbery's eloquence was over, she was safely landed among her friends. "Oh, Mr. Bertram," said she; "you are a horrid man. I'll never forgive you. Had I trusted myself to poor Mr. M'Gabbery, I should have been dry-footed at this moment." And she shook the water from off her dress, making a damp circle around herself as a Newfoundland dog sometimes does. "If I served you right, I should make you go to the hotel for a pair of shoes." "Do, Miss Waddington; make him go," said Sir Lionel. "If he doesn't, I'll go myself." "I shall be delighted," said Mr. Cruse; "my donkey is very quick;" and the clergyman mounted ready to start. "Only I shouldn't know where to find the things." "No, Mr. Cruse; and I couldn't tell you. Besides, there is nothing I like so much as wet feet,--except wet strings to my hat, for which latter I have to thank Mr. M'Gabbery." "I will go, of course," said M'Gabbery, emerging slowly from the pool. "Of course it is for me to go; I shall be glad of an opportunity of getting dry boots myself."