Dr. Panton threw himself down flat across the path and held out a walking stick over the slippery mud bank, but the stick was hopelessly, grotesquely out of Donnington’s reach.

All at once Blanche Farrow detached herself from the others and began running towards the cottage which formed the apex of the reservoir.  “I’m going for a rope,” she called out.  “I’ll be back in three or four minutes.”  But, thanks to Dr. Panton’s ingenuity, the man in the water had not to wait even so short a time as that.

“Have any of you a good long scarf?” asked the doctor, and then, quite eagerly for him, James Tapster produced a wonderful scarf—­the sort of scarf a millionaire would wear, so came the whimsical thought to Sir Lyon.  It was wide and very long, made of the finest knitted silk.  When firmly tied to the handle of the walking stick, the floating end of the scarf was within reach of Donnington.  With its help he even managed to secure a foothold on the narrow one-brick ledge which terminated the deep underwater wall of the reservoir.

The doctor called down to him with some urgency:  “I wish you could manage to hoist her up, Donnington. Time is of the utmost importance in these cases!”

But Donnington, try as he might, was too spent to obey; and it seemed an eternity to them all before Blanche Farrow reappeared, helping an old man to drag a short ladder along the muddy path.

And then, at last, after many weary, fruitless efforts, the inert, sodden mass which had so lately been poor little Bubbles Dunster was pushed and hoisted up the slippery bank, and stretched out on to the narrow brick way.

Mr. Tapster, who had shown much more agitation and feeling than any of those present would have credited him with, had taken off his big loose coat and laid it on the ground, and at once Varick had followed his example.  But as Bubbles lay there, in the dreadful immobility of utter unconsciousness, both Blanche Farrow and Helen Brabazon believed her to be dead.

A tragic, fearfully anxious time of suspense followed.  Blanche looked on, with steady, dry eyes, but Helen, after a very little while, turned away and hid her face in her hands, sobbing, while the doctor was engaged in the painful process of trying to bring the apparently drowned girl to life.  More than once Blanche felt tempted to implore him to leave off those terribly arduous efforts of his.  It seemed to her so—­so horrible, almost degrading, that Bubbles’ delicate little body should be used like that.

Everyone was too concerned over Bubbles to trouble about her rescuer.  But all at once Varick exclaimed:  “We don’t want you down with rheumatic fever.  I’ll just march you back to the house, my boy!”

“Not as long as she’s here,” muttered Donnington, his teeth chattering.  “I’m all right; it doesn’t matter about me.”

He alone of the people gathered there believed that Dr. Panton’s perseverance would be rewarded, and that Bubbles would come back to life.  It did not seem to him possible that that which he had saved, and which he so loved and cherished, could die.  Though he was beginning to feel the reaction of all he had gone through, his mind was working clearly, and he was praying—­praying consciously, in an agony of supplication.