“I hope this is the deepest water,” he says, “but if it is not—if the horses lose bottom and are forced to swim—don’t be frightened! If you keep your seat, Bonnibelle will carry you safely through. Cling to her neck if the worst comes. Now!” Forward again—the horses breasting the impetuous current, which nearly sweeps them off their feet, gallantly and steadily. Still higher the water rises. In another minute they must be forced to swim, Sylvia thinks, gathering all her resolution and courage to her aid. The water is at this time nearly on a level with Bonnibelle’s back, and it is probable every instant that she will lose bottom. Charley glances round in anxiety, and meets a brave, bright smile. “You were right in describing this as ‘deep fording,’” says Sylvia. “She’ll swim in another moment, I think.” “Can you keep your seat?” he asks. “Shall I come and hold you on?” Even under these circumstances, Sylvia resents this as an imputation on her horsewomanship. “No, indeed!” she answers. “I’m quite capable of keeping my seat without being held on.” Two or three yards farther of deep wading—and then—blessed relief!—the water grows a little shallower. The horses splash on resolutely, yet cautiously, pausing on every stone, as Sylvia afterward says, to feel for the next. As they approach the shore, the current grows less strong, the stream more shallow. At length they reach the bank, ride out of the water, and find themselves safe on dry ground. “Thank God!” says Charley—who is not usually devout—with a sincerity that cannot be doubted. “Laurel was child’s-play to that!” he goes on, flinging himself from his horse and coming to Sylvia’s side. “What a heroine you are!” he says. “But I shall never forgive myself.” “Why not?” she asks, with that slight, nervous laugh which is so significant of a tension removed. “We have come through safely, and I have to thank you for another adventure. Charley, I am going to confess something—I _was_ frightened for a little while in the middle of the stream.” “So was I—horribly!” he says. “I thought I had lost the ford, and that, weighted with boots and heavy clothing, I should have to swim with you to the bank. Lanier would have taken better care of you.” “He would have taken better care of himself—there’s not a doubt of _that_,” she answers coolly. “But you and I love danger, and some day, perhaps, as the Bible says, we shall perish in it.” “I hope we may perish together, then.” [Illustration: “‘You don’t mean to say that you’ve forded the river!’ she says.”] “What pleasure or profit would that be to either of us? But does it not occur to you that we are rather wet?” “Wet! I should think so.” He touches her heavy, dripping skirts with his hand. “What shall we do? You must dry yourself, or our adventure may end by making you ill.” “I must dry myself—and so must you—or the others will know what we have done—and I don’t want them to know.”