“Perhaps I would better take the tiller this time!” he said.  “The bottom seems to be shoal all about here.  And if you and Miss Everton will sit a little forward, Hilda, you will be more comfortable; I fear I cannot help dripping like hoary Nereus all over the stern here.”

He had never called her by her name before.  Hildegarde reflected that for once she could not blush, being already a Tyrian purple.  Of course it slipped out without his knowing it; but she was conscious of Madge’s gaze, and for once was thankful for her crimson cheeks.

This incident, or something else, had a quieting effect upon Miss Everton, and the sail home was a silent one.  Roger was not inclined to talk, and he had a power of silence which was apt to extend to his companions; so they were all relieved when the Keewaydin glided gracefully to her moorings, and Ferguson appeared in the small boat to take them ashore.

“This is my brother Philip, Miss Everton!” said Roger.  “Now if you will step into the boat, he will take you and Miss Grahame ashore, while I make all fast here.  If you will take his hand, and be careful to step in the middle of the boat.  In the middle of the boat, Miss Everton!  Ah!” For Madge, with an airy leap, had alighted full on the gunwale.  Down went the boat; the girl tried to regain her balance, but in vain, and after a few moments’ frantic struggle, fell headlong into the water.

Phil had thrown himself to starboard the moment he felt the shock of her alighting, hoping to counterbalance her weight; but he was too light.  Now, however, he leaned swiftly forward, and caught the little French boots as they disappeared under the clear water.  There was nothing else to be done.  In this ignominious way, feet foremost, poor Madge had to be dragged in over the gunwale, dripping and shrieking.

“You odious boy!” she cried, as soon as she could find breath.  “You did it on purpose!  You tried to drown me, I know you did!”

Hildegarde hastened to her assistance.  Roger, his face set like a rock, but his eyes dancing wickedly, proffered his aid, but was peevishly repulsed.  As for Phil, he could only try to control himself, and murmured broken excuses between the gusts of laughter which shook him like a reed.  Madge was a sorry sight, all her gay plumes broken and dripping, her spotted veil in a little wet mop over one eye, her floating curls reduced to forlorn strings of wet hair, her light dress clinging about her.  How different from the bright bird of paradise that had so lately fluttered down on the camp, bent on conquest!  Now her only thought was to escape.  Mrs. Merryweather met her on the wharf with open arms and a warm blanket, and she was brought to the camp, and dried and warmed as quickly as possible.  But Madge’s temper, none of the sweetest by nature, was completely spoiled; she had only peevish or sullen answers for all the expressions of sympathy and condolence that were poured