bottom of this strange absorption in the little creature of whose very existence he had not been aware till last night. Now, if he had been called on to give his very life for Tiny he would have been capable of it, without knowing why; and, indeed, there would have been a very likely occasion of giving his life for Tiny, or of sacrificing hers, as her mother foresaw, if he had not caught her as she stretched herself out of the boat to reach the flowers. His grip of her was almost violent--and there was a moment during which Tiny’s little glow disappeared in a sudden thunder-cloud, changing the character of her little face, and a small incipient stamp of passion on the planks betrayed rebellion ready to rise. But Tiny looked at Bertram, who held her very firmly, fixed him with much the same look as she had given him at their first meeting, and suddenly changed countenance again. What did that look mean? He had said laughingly on the previous night that it was a look of recognition. She suddenly put her two little hands round his neck, and said, “Tiny will be dood.” And the effect of the little rebel’s embrace was that tears--actual wet tears, which for a moment blinded eyes which had looked every kind of wonder and terror in the face--surprised him before he knew. What did it mean? What did it mean? It was too wonderful for words. The flowers were gathered after this in perfect safety and harmony; Tiny puddling with her hands in the mud to get the nearest ones “nice and long,” as she said, while Bertram secured those that were further off. And then there arose a great difficulty as to how to carry these wet and rather muddy spoils. Tiny’s pretty frock, which she held out in both hands to receive them like a ballet dancer, could not be thought of. “For what would your mother say if your frock was wet and dirty?” said Bertram, seriously troubled. “Mummie say, ‘Oh, Tiny, Tiny, naughty schild,’” said the little girl, with a very grave face; “never come no more to garden party.” Finally an expedient was devised in the shape of Bertram’s handkerchief tied together at the corners, and swung upon a switch of willow which was light enough for Tiny to carry; in which guise the pair set out again toward the house and the smart people, Tiny once more on Bertram’s shoulder, with the bundle of flowers bobbing in front of his nose, and, it need not be said, some trace of the gathering of the flowers and of the muddy edges of the pool, and the moss-grown planks of the boat showing on both performers--on Tiny’s frock, which was a little wet, and on Bertram’s coat, marked by the beating of the little feet, which had gathered a little mud and greenness too. Tiny began to question him on the returning way. “Gemplemans too big to have got a mummie,” said Tiny; “have you got a little girl?”