sort of thing is too hazy for mine.”

“Now, Nat, you know very well you are just as sentimental as any one else. Didn’t you write some verses—once?”

“Verses? Oh, yes. But I didn’t get mixed with the stars. You will remember it was Ned who said:

“‘The stars were shining clear and bright

When it rained like time, that fearful night!’

“I was the only one who stood by Ned when he penned that stanza. It could rain like time and be a fearful night while the stars were shining—in China. Oh, yes, that was a great composition, but I didn’t happen to win out.”

The school test of versification, to which both had reference, brought back pleasant memories, and Dorothy and Nat enjoyed the retrospection.

“What is that?” asked Dorothy suddenly, as something stirred at the side of the bridge on the slope that led to the water.

“Muskrat or a snake,” suggested Nat indifferently.

“No, listen! That sounded like someone falling down the path.”

“A nice soft fall to them then,” remarked Nat, without showing signs of intending to make an investigation.

“Ask if anyone is there,” timidly suggested Dorothy.

At this Nat jumped up and looked over the culvert.

“There sure is some one sliding down,” he said. “Hi there! Want any help?”

“A stone slipped under my foot,” came back the answer, and the voice was unmistakably that of a young girl or a child.

“Wait a minute,” called Nat. “I’ll get down there and give you a hand.”

The path to the brook led directly around the bridge, and it took but a moment for the boy to make his way to the spot whence the voice came. Dorothy could scarcely distinguish the two figures that kept so close to the bridge as to be in danger of sliding under the stone arch.

“There,” called Nat. “Get hold of my hand. I have a good grip on a strong limb, and can 

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