As things turned out, it was the best that she could have done, for her voice roused Leam’s faculties into active life again, and broke the spell of torpor into which horror had thrown them.  “Holy St. Jago, help me!” she said, instinctively turning back to first traditions and making the sign of the cross, which she did not often make now, and only when surprised out of conscious into automatic action.

Running down and along the bank, with one hand she seized the branch of an oak that swept into the water, then plunged in up to her shoulders to catch the child drifting down among the white ranunculus.  Fortunately, Fina was still near enough to the shore to be caught as she drifted by without absolute danger of drowning to Leam, who waded back to land, drawing the child with her, not much the worse for her dangerous moment save for the fright which she had suffered and the cold of her dripping clothes; in both of which conditions Leam was her companion.

So soon as she was safe on shore the child began to scream and cry piteously, as was perhaps but natural, and when she saw Josephine she tore herself away from Leam and ran up to her as if for protection.  “Take me home to nurse,” she sobbed, climbing into the little low phaeton and clinging to Josephine, who was also weeping and trembling hysterically.  “Leam pushed me in:  take me away from her.”

“You say what is not true, Fina,” said Leam gravely, trembling as much as Josephine, though her eyes were dry and she did not sob.  “You fell in because you would not let me hold you.”

“You pushed me in, and I hate you,” reiterated Fina, cowering close to the bosom of her warm, soft friend.

“Do you believe this?” asked Leam, turning to Josephine and speaking with all her old pride of voice and bearing.  Nevertheless, she was as white as those flowers on the water.  It was madame’s child who accused her of attempting to kill her, and it was the child whom she had so earnestly desired to win who now said, “I hate her,” to the sister of the man to whom she longed to hear her say, “I love Leam.”

“Believe that you pushed her in—­that you wanted to drown dear little Fina?  No!” cried Josephine in broken sentences through her tears.  “She mistakes.—­You must not say such dreadful things, my darling,” to Fina.  “Dear sister Leam would not hurt a hair of your head, I am sure.”

“She did:  she pushed me in on purpose,” persisted the shivering child, beginning to cry afresh.

On which, a little common sense dawning on Josephine’s distracted mind, she did her best to stop her own hysterical sympathy, remembering that to go home, change their wet clothes, have something warm to drink and be put to bed would be more to the purpose for both at this moment than to stand there crying, shivering and recriminating, with herself as the weak and loving judge, inclining to both equally, to settle the vexed question of accident or malice.