“Come down from there!” he called out, a queer recurrence of his own childhood on him as he viewed the muscular boy and the plump, bare calves above his short stockings. He was breathing freely now, for he felt that in case of a fall he could catch the youngster in his arms. “Oh, do let me get him!” Lionel cried, looking down appealingly, and speaking with the accent which had always impressed hearers as so quaint and odd in a child. “No, you mustn't go a bit higher!” Galt said, assuming a youthful tone of comradery that his words might not have any semblance of command. “You are a dandy climber--almost as good as the cat, but he is lighter than you are. You'll break that limb in a minute, and down you will tumble!” The boy looked at the bending bough and shrugged his square shoulders. “I don't know but what you are right,” he said, with a wry face. “I declare, I wasn't looking where I was going. I'm almost afraid to move now.” Then he burst into a merry laugh as he glanced first at his would-be rescuer and then up at the cat. “Why, what is so amusing about it?” Galt questioned, fairly transported by the boy's beauty, fearlessness, and vivacity. “Oh, I don't know, but it seems funny--you down there, me up here, and the cat above us both.” Galt laughed till tears came into his eyes. “You are certainly a marvel,” he said. “But you must come down. Slide carefully toward the trunk of the tree and catch hold of it firmly. You'll tear your clothes, but it is better that than--” “I know an easier way!” the child cried. “I'll jump, and you catch me.” “But I can't!” Galt answered. “You'd crush me to the ground, small as you are!” “No, I wouldn't!” Lionel laughed, with thorough confidence. “Doctor Wynn caught me the other day when I jumped from the roof of the wagon-shed, and you are stronger than he is. You are taller, anyway. Look, I am coming!” Fascinated by the child's voice and manner, and unable to protest quickly enough, Galt braced himself, fearing that the swaying child would fall. “One, two, _three!_ Lionel counted, and the little white-clothed figure left the bough, shot through the sunlight, and alighted in Galt's outstretched arms. There was a scream from Margaret, the General stood up, a startled look on his gashed and seamed face. The child's arms went round Galt's neck; his soft, warm cheek was pressed against his, and, scarcely knowing why he did it, Galt embraced him in a veritable qualm of relief. He put the boy down, but took his hands in his and held them. He admired and loved children, but he had never been so drawn to one before. “He's all right!” he called out, reassuringly, to the others. “He didn't get a scratch, but it's a wonder he wasn't lamed for life. He jumped before I could stop him.” Looking into the child's sensitive face, Galt noted, with surprise and concern, that it was clouded over. “What's the matter?” he asked, anxiously. “Did you hurt yourself? Did it jar you too much?”