“I’m sure I don’t know, Bella.”
A little fish has been nibbling for a long time at the bait; the cork has been bobbing up and down—and now he is fairly hooked, and pulls away toward the bank, and you can not see the cork.
—“Here, Bella, quick!”—and she springs eagerly to clasp her little hands around the rod. But the fish has dragged it away on the other side of me; and as she reaches farther, and farther, she slips, cries—“Oh, Paul!” and falls into the water.
The stream they told us, when we came, was over a man’s head—it is surely over little Isabel’s. I fling down the rod, and thrusting one hand into the roots that support the overhanging bank, I grasp at her hat, as she comes up; but the ribbons give way, and I see the terribly earnest look upon her face as she goes down again. Oh, my mother—thought I—if you were only here!
But she rises again; this time I thrust my hand into her dress, and struggling hard, keep her at the top until I can place my foot down upon a projecting root; and, so bracing myself, I drag her to the bank, and having climbed up, take hold of her belt firmly with both hands, and drag her out; and poor Isabel, choked, chilled, and wet, is lying upon the grass.
I commence crying aloud. The workmen in the fields hear me, and come down. One takes Isabel in his arms, and I follow on foot to our uncle’s home upon the hill.
—“Oh, my dear children!” says my mother; and she takes Isabel in her arms; and presently, with dry clothes and blazing wood fire, little Bella smiles again. I am at my mother’s knee.
“I told you so, Paul,” says Isabel—“aunty, doesn’t Paul love me?”
“I hope so, Bella,” said my mother.
“I know so,” said I; and kissed her cheek.