“With such an inducement, I must certainly make an effort to get it,” says Charley, gallantly—but he looks doubtfully at the position of the flower. “Charley, don’t be a fool!” says Eric, aside. “You can’t possibly get it without risking a plunge-bath, and it will be no joke to fall into that pool. It must be six or eight feet deep.” “I feel as if I can never be satisfied if I don’t have it,” says Miss Hollis, with the prettiest air of appeal. “Then you shall have it,” says Charley, springing up the bank. “What on earth is he going to do?” I say. What he is going to do is soon apparent. We hear him breaking through the bushes by the side of the stream, and presently he appears on the top of the fall. Lying down there, and holding by a laurel-shrub, he leans far over the rock, and tries to gather the flower. It is a most precarious position, and one which it is not pleasant to contemplate. “Go back!” Eric, Rupert, and I cry in chorus. “You can’t reach it—you’ll certainly fall over. Go back!” “O Mr. Kenyon, pray don’t!” cries Miss Hollis. She turns away and covers her face with her hands. “I can’t look!” she says. “I really can’t.—Please tell me if he falls.” Sylvia looks on steadily—her color bright, her lips set. “I hope he _will_ fall!” she says. “He deserves it for such folly.” “He’ll go over head-foremost in a minute,” says Mr. Lanier, philosophically. Meanwhile Charley, deaf to our warnings, leans farther and farther over the rock, reaches nearer and nearer the flower. At last his hand touches it. “By George, he’s got it!” cries Rupert, triumphantly. The words are scarcely uttered before the laurel-bush, on which he has bent his whole weight, breaks suddenly. He tries to recover his balance—he catches desperately at another shrub—fails to reach it—and goes, all in an instant, down into the pool! [Illustration: A Mishap.] The tremendous splash which he makes informs Miss Hollis—even before our exclamations—what has occurred. She turns and screams, of course—the women who make mischief are the women who always scream over it. Nobody heeds her. Eric and Rupert spring forward just as Charley’s head rises like a cork. A stroke or two brings him to water where he can wade. Then the others assist him out and deposit him, dripping, on the rocks. “I’ve a great mind to say ‘Serves you right!’” remarks Eric. “I hope you are satisfied.” “I believe I am,” replies Charley, as soon as he can speak. “But I have the flower.—You’ll excuse my coming near you in my present moist condition, Miss Hollis—but here it is.” He gives it to Rupert, who presents it to the young lady. “I can’t tell you how much I shall prize it,” she cries, “nor how much I am obliged to you for taking so much trouble to gratify me; but I would give _any thing_ if you had not fallen into the water. I was horribly frightened, for I felt _sure_ you would be drowned.”