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1884.] dances, but yet not near enough to surrender itself a prisoner.

In his endeavors to reach it Brooke is growing unpleasantly red. I begin an elaborate speculation as to whether it will be victory with him or death from disease of the heart, when a move on the part of Jones upsets my thoughts. He has not been idle. He had rushed into the woods behind us on Carrie's first cry, and now emerges from it armed with a huge crooked stick denuded of branches, which he waves aloft.

"This will do," he pants huskily.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, indeed, not the least bit," says Miss Kingsley earnestly. "I wish you would both forget all about that wretched glove."

But it is too late for directions emanating even from the beloved. Jones in turn prostrates himself upon his stomach, and, thrusting out his forked stick, proceeds to dibble for the glove.

Delicately, in a coaxing manner, he pats the water near where the desired object sways gently up and down.

"There is something coaxing about Jones, after all," I whisper to Carrie, as we both stand together watching the comedy that is being enacted so close to us.

"Take care it doesn't turn into a tragedy," says Carrie solemnly. "I mistrust those two young men."

It is plain to everybody that they mistrust each other. Fire flashes from their eyes as they regard each other with glances of deadly hatred. Then Jones makes his final effort. It is the moment in which victory seems nearest to Brooke. Almost he is assured of it. His fingers have all but closed upon the coveted glove, when Jones's seductive tap upon the waters shakes the advancing wavelet that bears it on its crest toward Brooke, and—oh! maddening thought—changes its course and bears it straight to Jones.

Is he, then, to be the Sir Francis that is again, in modern days, to rescue his lady's glove? Perish the vile thought!

Wild with jealous fear, Brooke stoops still farther over the shelving rock, and makes a movement of his hand in the water meant to imitate and spoil the effect produced by Jones's rod. Alas! it only serves to drive the glove still nearer to that demon. His brow grows black as thunder; the game is slipping from him. Jones, with a fiendish laugh, stoops over and makes ready to seize the skin of contention. Farther, farther still he stoops. The prize is his! He flings away the faithful stick that has done him such good service without so much as a grateful glance, and bends to secure the glove.

Just a little too far he bends; he loses his balance; he make a convulsive clutch at his prey. Then there is one awful moment, when his heels attain an unenviable notoriety and his head sinks into the watery abyss, and the world knows him no more! He has vanished from our horrified sight, perchance (who knows?) never to rise again!

He does, however. In a most inconsiderately short time, and with a startling amount of very unromantic spluttering and puffing and choking, he comes to the surface, strikes for land, and is soon hauled ashore by me. In doing him this service I get extremely wet. I should, of course, have avoided the doing of it if possible, but I felt assured that if the task were left to Brooke the man would be most surely drowned. To avoid, therefore, an inquest on the morrow, and to save Brooke's soul from the stain of blood, I lend a helping hand to the dripping Jones.

Oh, the satisfied malice that gleams in Brooke's eye as his rival emerges in doleful plight from the bosom of the lake! Oh, the curl of his lip, the undisguised satisfaction in the tip of his long, lean nose!

"I have got it!" cries Jones with unsubdued delight, as he clambers up the shelving rock with my assistance. Miss Kingsley's glove between his teeth. He looks like a fat retriever, but no one can doubt his pluck. He has forgotten his ducking, his deplorable situation,—all save the fact that he is victor. He proceeds to lay his trophy at his lady's feet.

"Indeed I think you might be allowed to keep it for your prowess!" I exclaim enthusiastically, in spite of the water