There is no danger in the matter—only the discomfort of being thoroughly drenched and rendered almost senseless by the volume of pouring water. I do not hear the conversation—that is reported to me later—but I have a suspicion of what causes the delay, and I am not greatly surprised when Charley emerges from behind the fall, bearing Sylvia’s dripping figure. “She has fallen into the water!” everybody cries, and we rush toward the stone on which he places her. But she does not receive us very graciously. As soon as she is able to gasp anything, she says: “Why do you come and stare at me? Of course I am wet, but that is not terrible. It was my own fault”—Charley’s conscience-stricken expression of countenance causes this statement, perhaps—“and I shall simply have to go back to the hotel.” “Indeed you must!” I say. “Or you will be ill. There is not a dry thread on you.” “You must take some brandy at once,” says Eric, producing a flask. “How on earth did you chance to fall?” asks Mrs. Cardigan. “I think the sooner you start, and the faster you ride, the better,” says Mr. Lanier, solicitously. “Suppose we all go back?” says Eric. “The rain has detained us until it is late, and the other falls are much more difficult of access than this one. You will find the bushes—through which you will have to break in reaching them—very wet; and, altogether, we had better defer the remainder of the expedition.” We all agree to this. It _is_ late, it _is_ wet, and Sylvia’s draggled appearance has a depressing effect upon our spirits. Poor Charley is evidently a prey to the liveliest sentiments of remorse and regret. He does not, as usual, assert his right to put Sylvia on her horse, and it is only after she has been elevated to the saddle by Mr. Lanier that he rides to her side and says: “I can’t possibly tell you how sorry I am that I should have been rude enough to cause your accident. I offer my most sincere apologies.” “The accident does not matter at all,” replies Sylvia, indifferently. When Aunt Markham sees this young lady, she is of a different opinion, and hurries her away to change her dress, swallow hot draughts, and be coddled generally. In the course of an hour or two, however, she emerges in as bright looks and bright spirits as ever. I do not think that she attached any importance to the little scene behind the fall, or the trenchant monosyllable she was provoked into uttering—but Charley is of a different mind, and when she appears he is guilty of one of those acts of folly which even the wisest men commit in such matters. “I believe this is a piece of your property—which I have no right to retain,” he says, coming up to her as she sits on the piazza, with the rest of the party gathered in a group around, and he detaches the knot of blue ribbon from his coat and presents it with an air of overwhelming courtesy.