And when, after he had fetched John’s coat and boots, Sydney bade him take the child, now crying and shivering, back to his mother, and tell her to put him to bed and give him something hot he replied—-

“Ay, ma’am, I warrant a good warming would do him no harm.  Come on, then, you young rascal; you won’t always find a young lady to pull you out, nor a gentleman to swim across that there Avon.  Upon my honour, sir, there ain’t many could have done that when it is in flood.”

He would gladly have escorted them home, but as the boy could not yet stand, he was forced to carry him.

“You should walk fast,” said John, as he and Sydney addressed themselves to the ascent of the steep sloping ground above the river.

She assented, but she was a good deal strained, bruised, and spent, and her heavy winter dress, muddied and soaked, clung to her and held her back, and both laboured breathlessly without making much speed.

“I never guessed that a river was so strong,” she said.  “It was like a live thing fighting to tear him away.”

“How long had you stood there?”

“I can’t guess.  It felt endless!  The boy could not help himself, and I was getting so cramped that I must have let go if your call had not given me just strength enough!  And the tree would have come down upon us!”

“I believe it would,” muttered John.

“Mamma must thank you,” whispered Sydney, holding out her hand.

He clasped it, saying almost inwardly—-

“God and His Angels were with you.”

“I hope so,” said Sydney softly.

They still held one another’s hands, seeming to need the support in the steep, grassy ascent, and there came a catch in John’s breath that made Sydney cry,

“You are not hurt?”

“That snag gave me a dig in the side, but it is nothing.”

As they gained the level ground, Sydney said—-

“We will go in by the servants’ entrance, it will make less fuss.”

“Thank you;” and with a final pressure she loosed his hand, and led the way through the long, flagged, bell-hung passage, and pointed to a stair.

“That leads to the end of the gallery; you will see a red baize door, and then you know your way.”

Sydney knew that at this hour on Sunday, servants were not plentiful, but she looked into the housekeeper’s room where the select grandees were at tea, and was received with an astounded “Miss Evelyn!” from the housekeeper.

“Yes, Saunders; I should have been drowned, and little Peter Hollis too, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Friar Brownlow.  He swam across Avon, and has been knocked by a tree; and Reeves, would you be so very kind as to go and see about him?”

Reeves, who had approved of Mr. Friar Brownlow ever since his race at Schwarenbach, did not need twice bidding, but snatched up the kettle and one of Mrs. Saunders’s flasks, while that good lady administered the like potion to Sydney and carried her off to be undressed.  Mrs. Evelyn was met upon the way, and while she was hearing her daughter’s story, in the midst of the difficulties of unfastening soaked garments, there was a knock at the door.  Mrs. Saunders went to it, and a young housemaid said—-