“It was the night before last,” Mrs. Bayne was saying; “they were playing on the bank, and Miss Nina chose to climb into a tree that overhangs the river.  Of course when she got up, the most natural thing in the world was that she should slip down again, but unluckily she did not fall on the grass, but into the water.”

Mrs. Bellairs shuddered.  “What an awful risk!”

“My dear, they are always running risks.  I am sure among the seven there is always one in danger.”

“Well?”

“Well, Charlie ran to the study to his papa, and when Mr. Bayne went out, there was Nina, who had been partly stunned by her fall, beginning to float away with the current.  Fortunately she had fallen in so near the edge that the water was very shallow, and if she had been in possession of her senses, she might have dragged herself out I dare say; but, you know, the current is very strong, and her papa had to get into the river a little lower down and catch her as she was passing.”

“And she was insensible?”

“Not quite when they brought her in, but then unluckily her wetting brought on ague again, and she was shivering all night.”

“Poor Nina!” and Mrs. Bellairs turned to the miserable pale child, who looked as if another shivering fit were coming on.  “You must make haste and get better, and come and stay with Flo for a while.  We never have ague.”

“You are fortunate,” sighed Mrs. Bayne.  “I wish that wretched swamp could be done something to.”

“So do I, with all my heart.  I must tease William into giving the people no rest until they do it.”

“You will be doing us and our poor neighbours at the shanties no small service.  Ague is dreadfully bad there just now.”

A frantic pull at Mrs. Bellairs’ hat from the baby interrupted the conversation, and the visitors rose to go.

When they were once more on the road Mrs. Bellairs turned laughingly to her companion, “Tell me,” she said, “don’t you agree with me that a visit to the Parsonage furnishes a tolerably strong argument in favour of a clergy such as the Roman Catholic?”

“That is, an unmarried one?  Are many of your clergymen’s wives like Mrs. Bayne?”

“If you mean are they worn out, overworked women?  Yes, I believe so.  How can they help it indeed, when one hundred a year is a very ordinary amount for a clergyman’s income?”

Mr. Percy shrugged his shoulders.  “I agree with you entirely.  No man ought to marry under those circumstances.  But I wish you would enlighten me on one point,—­what are shanties?”

“Log-houses of the roughest possible kind, such as are built in the woods for the gangs of lumberers; that is, you know, the men who cut down the trees and prepare them for shipping.”

“But Mrs. Bayne said something about shanties near here.”