The girl’s eyes shone with a momentary remorseful pity.
“I know you would,” she said, softly; “you aren’t one to think about yourself, Duke. How I wish I could swim! I don’t believe there can be anything in the world like getting that medal they give you for saving people from drowning. Have you ever saved any one, Mr. Trender?”
Oh, gentle hand to deal so cruel a stroke! For a moment my smoldering sense of guilt flamed up blood-red.
“No, no,” I said, with a forced laugh. “I’m not like Duke. I do think of myself. I’m afraid.”
We lapsed into silence, out of which came Dolly’s voice presently, murmuring a queer little doggerel song that seemed apt to her childish nature:
“‘Who owns that house on yonder hill?’
Said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road.
‘It’s my father’s and mine,’
Said the pretty little child scarce seven years old.
“‘Will you let me in?’