We ran the boat’s nose aground, fastened her painter to a stump and settled down for a talk. “Enjoying yourself, Dolly?” asked Duke, mopping his forehead. “Yes, of course--thanks to Mr. Trender.” “This is a fine variety on our walks, isn’t it?” “Oh, they’re jolly enough when you’re in a good temper.” “Am I not always?” “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes you say things I don’t understand.” “See there, Renny,” cried Duke. “If I express myself badly she calls me cross.” “It isn’t that,” said the girl. “I know I’m ignorant and you’re clever, but you seem to read me and then say things out of yourself that have nothing to do with me--just as if I was a book and you a--what do they call it?--cricket or something.” We both laughed aloud. “Oh, Dolly,” said Duke, “what pretty imp taught you satire? Are you a book to Mr. Trender?” “Oh, no! He talks what I can understand.” “Better and better! But take comfort, Renny; you’re downed in sweet company.” “Hush,” said Dolly; “it’s Sunday.” She dabbled her slender hand in the water and drew it out quickly. “Oh,” she cried, “it’s cold. I hope we shan’t be upset. Can you swim, Mr. Trender?” “Yes, like a duck.” “That’s a comfort, if I fall in. Mr. Straw, here, can’t.” “I’m built top-heavy,” said Duke, “but I’d try to save you, Dolly.” The girl’s eyes shone with a momentary remorseful pity. “I know you would,” she said, softly; “you aren’t one to think about yourself, Duke. How I wish I could swim! I don’t believe there can be anything in the world like getting that medal they give you for saving people from drowning. Have you ever saved any one, Mr. Trender?” Oh, gentle hand to deal so cruel a stroke! For a moment my smoldering sense of guilt flamed up blood-red. “No, no,” I said, with a forced laugh. “I’m not like Duke. I do think of myself. I’m afraid.” We lapsed into silence, out of which came Dolly’s voice presently, murmuring a queer little doggerel song that seemed apt to her childish nature: “‘Who owns that house on yonder hill?’ Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road. ‘It’s my father’s and mine,’ Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old. “‘Will you let me in?’ Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road. ‘Oh, no; not a step,’ Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old. “‘Then I wish you deaf and dumb,’ Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road. ‘And I wish you the same, with a blister on your tongue!’ Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old.” “Where on earth did you learn that?” said Duke, with a laugh, as Dolly ceased, her eyes dreaming out upon the shining river. “I don’t know. Mother used to sing it, I think, when I was a little girl.” “We must question her,” said I. “Mother’s dead,” said Dolly. I could have bitten out my tongue. Duke again exerted himself to put matters on a comfortable footing.