A curt voice suddenly called from the shore behind her, "Here, girl, girl! Stop that. Be quiet, and probably you'll float in."
She turned involuntarily, and beheld, standing on the verge, a small, elderly man wearing a silk hat and scowling while he motioned to her imperiously.
Obediently she ceased her ineffectual splashing, and the boat danced and floated shoreward.
"Then why doesn't the oar float in, too?" she asked anxiously.
"Ask Neptune," returned the stranger curtly.
"I mustn't lose that oar," cried the girl.
"Why didn't you take care of it, then?" rejoined the judge, and the boat just then venturing near him and curtsying, he jumped aboard of her with an agility that astonished the passenger. The craft rocked in the shock.
"Sit still," commanded the judge, and Sylvia remained motionless while he seized the oar, and going to the end of the boat, began sculling with a practiced hand, which was at strange variance with his costume.
The trouble in Sylvia's eyes vanished, and two little stars danced therein as she saw by the steady approach of their craft that the lost was as good as found, and so had leisure to gaze furtively at her gondolier. The down-drawn corners of the judge's lips, his shaggy frown at the oar coquetting on the ripples with a breeze which was flapping the skirts of his formal frock coat, and the firm set forward of his high silk hat, formed an incongruous picture.
He took no notice of her gaze. "The currents in this basin," he said half to himself, "are most aggravating."