assistance--when I miss my footing, slip a little way down against my will, and then sustain a check. Some outlying bough, with vicious and spiteful intent, has laid hold on my gown in such way that I can not reach to undo it."Come down, can't you?" says Billy, with impatience "you are showing a yard and a half of your leg."
"I can't!" I groan; "I'm caught somewhere. Oh, what shall I do?"
Meantime, Mr. Carrington is coming nearer and nearer. As I peer at him through the unlucky branches I can see he is looking if anything rather handsomer than usual, with his gun on his shoulder and a pipe between his lips. As he meets my eyes riveted upon him from my airy perch he takes out the pipe and consigns it to his pocket. If he gets round to the other side of the tree, from which point the horrors of my position are even more forcibly depicted, I feel I shall drop dead.
"Why don't you get that lazy boy to do the troublesome part of the business for you?" calls out our welcome friend, while yet at some distance. Then, becoming suddenly aware of my dilemma, "Are you in any difficulty? Can I help you down?"
He has become preternaturally grave--so grave that it occurs to me he may possibly be repressing a smile. Billy, I can see, is inwardly convulsed. I begin to feel very wrathful.
"I don't want any help" I say, with determination. "But for my dress I could manage---"
"Better let me assist you," says Mr. Carrington, making a step forward. In another moment he will have gained the other side, and then all will be indeed lost.
"No, no!" I cry, desperately; "I won't be helped. Stay where you are."
"Very good," returns he, and, immediately presenting his back to me, makes a kind pretense of studying the landscape.
Now, although this is exactly the thing of all others I most wish him to do, still the voluntary doing of it on his part induces me to believe my situation a degree more indecent than before. I feel I shall presently be dissolved in tears. I tug madly at my unfortunate dress without making the faintest impression upon it. Oh, why is it that my cotton--that up to this has been so prone to reduce itself to rags--to-day should prove so tough? My despair forces from me a heavy sigh.
"Not down yet?" says Mr. Carrington, turning to me once more. "You will never manage it by yourself. Be sensible, and let me put you on your feet."
"No," I answer, in an agony; "it must give way soon. I shall do it, if--if--you will only turn your back to me again." It is death to my pride to have to make this request. I nerve myself to try one more heroic effort. The branch I am clinging to gives way with a crash. "Oh!" I shriek frantically, and in another moment fall headlong into Mr. Carrington's outstretched arms.
"Are you hurt?" he asks, gazing at me with anxious eyes, 

 Prev. P 14/313 next