From my watch-tower I trace the progress of Sir Roger between the fruit-trees.  As yet, he has not seen me.  Perhaps he will turn into another walk, and leave the garden by an opposite door, I remaining undiscovered.  No! he is coming toward me.  He is walking slowly along, a cigar in his mouth, and his eyes on the ground, evidently in deep meditation.  Perhaps he will pass me without looking up.  Nearer and nearer he comes, I hold my breath, and sit as still as stone, when, as ill-luck will have it, just as he is approaching quite close to me, utterly innocent of my proximity, a nasty, teasing tickle visits my nose, and I sneeze loudly and irrepressibly.  Atcha! atcha!  He starts, and not perceiving at first whence comes the unexpected sound, looks about him in a bewildered way.  Then his eyes turn toward the wall.  Hope and fear are alike at an end.  I am discovered.  Like Angelina, I—­

  ....’"stand confessed,
  A maid in all my charms.”

“How—­on—­earth—­did you get up there?” he asks, in an accent of slow and marked astonishment, not unmixed with admiration.

As he speaks, he throws away his cigar, and takes his hat off.

“How on earth am I to get down again? is more to the purpose,” I answer, bluntly.

“I could not have believed that any thing but a cat could have been so agile,” he says, beginning to laugh.  “Would you mind telling me how did you get up?”

“By the ladder,” reply I, laconically, reddening, and, under the influence of that same insupportable doubt concerning my ankles, trying to tuck away my legs under me, a manoeuvre which all but succeeds in toppling me over.

“The ladder!” (looking round).  “Are you quite sure?  Then where has it disappeared to?”

“I said something that vexed Bobby,” reply I, driven to the humiliating explanation, “and he went off with it.  Never mind! once I am down, I will be even with him!”

He looks entertained.

“What will you do?  What will you say?  Will you make use of the same excellently terse expression that you applied to me last night?”

“I should not wonder,” reply I, bursting out into uncomfortable laughter; “but it is no use talking of what I shall do when I am down:  I am not down yet; I wish I were.”

“It is no great distance from the ground,” he says, coming nearer the wall, standing close to where the apricot is showering down her white and pinky petals.  “Are you afraid to jump?  Surely not!  Try!  If you will, I will promise that you shall come to no hurt.”

“But supposing that I knock you down?” say I, doubtfully.  “I really am a good weight—­heavier than you would think to look at me—­and coming from such a height, I shall come with great force.”

He smiles.

“I am willing to risk it; if you do knock me down, I can but get up again.”

I require no warmer invitation.  With arms extended, like the sails of a windmill, I hurl myself into the embrace of Sir Roger Tempest.  The next moment I am standing beside him on the gravel-walk, red and breathless, but safe.