“I hope the little girl you mentioned will get well, and has enough money to tide her over this trouble,” said Uncle John anxiously.

“The manager will look after her,” returned Mrs. Montrose.  “Our people are very good about that and probably Sadie Martin’s salary will continue regularly until she is able to work again.”

“Well,” said Beth, drawing a long breath, “I suppose we shall read all about it in the morning papers.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Maud and added:  “These accidents never get into the papers.  They happen quite often, around Los Angeles, where ten thousand or more people make their living from motion pictures; but the public is protected from all knowledge of such disasters, which would detract from their pleasure in pictures and perhaps render all films unpopular.”

“I thought the dear public loved the dare-devil acts,” remarked Arthur Weldon.

“Oh, it does,” agreed Mrs. Montrose; “yet those who attend the picture theatres seem not to consider the action taking place before their eyes to be real.  Here are pictures only—­a sort of amplified story book—­and the spectators like them exciting; but if they stopped to reflect that men and women in the flesh were required to do these dangerous feats for their entertainment, many would be too horrified to enjoy the scenes.  Of course the makers of the pictures guard their actors in all possible ways; yet, even so, casualties are bound to occur.”

They had retired to a cosy corner of the public drawing room and were conversing on this interesting topic when they espied A. Jones walking toward them.  The youth was attired in immaculate evening dress, but his step was slow and dragging and his face pallid.

Arthur and Uncle John drew up an easy chair for him while Patsy performed the introductions to Mrs. Montrose and her nieces.  Very earnestly the boy grasped the hand of the young girl who had been chiefly responsible for his rescue, thanking her more by his manner than in his few carefully chosen words.

As for Maud, she smilingly belittled her effort, saying lightly:  “I know I must not claim that it didn’t amount to anything, for your life is valuable, Mr. Jones, I’m sure.  But I had almost nothing to do beyond calling Patsy Doyle’s attention to you and then swimming out to keep you afloat until help came.  I’m a good swimmer, so it was not at all difficult.”

“Moreover,” he added, “you would have done the same thing for anyone in distress.”

“Certainly.”

“I realize that.  I am quite a stranger to you.  Nevertheless, my gratitude is your due and I hope you will accept it as the least tribute I can pay you.  Of all that throng of bathers, only you noticed my peril and came to my assistance.”

“Fate!” whispered Flo impressively.

“Nonsense,” retorted her sister.  “I happened to be the only one looking out to sea.  I think, Mr. Jones, you owe us apologies more than gratitude, for your folly was responsible for the incident.  You were altogether too venturesome.  Such action on this coast, where the surf rolls high and creates an undertow, is nothing less than foolhardy.”