Down the bank flashed headlong a gleam of white; the girl's lithe form was thrown prostrate upon the rock; her arm leaped out, her hand caught his, and she braced herself, every muscle stiffening under the strain; then slowly, inch by inch conquering the force of the current, she drew man and dog to safety, and a moment later bent over them as they lay prone upon the bank.

Atherton's eyes were closed; his breath came in quick, uneven gasps. "Are you all right?" she cried, and although he made no direct reply, he contrived a vague gesture toward the draggled ball of yellow fur at his side. "Look after--pup," he managed to articulate, and was satisfied to lie still, while the sunshine whirled dazzlingly about him, and the baffled river roared past at his feet.

But the dog needed little help. Nervous shock--if puppies are subject to nervous shocks--seemed to be all that ailed him, and presently he sat up, very moist and somewhat dazed, to greet the children who now came tearing down the bank, their grief changed suddenly to wild delight. For the little girls, the dog was all that mattered; and gathering him, all dripping as he was, into their arms, they loaded him with caresses and endearments, and without a thought of Atherton, bore him away toward home. But the boy, old enough to be a hero worshipper, lingered to gaze admiringly as Atherton at length sat up and began to wring the water from his clothes. "Say, mister," he volunteered, "you done that slick," and abashed by the sound of his own voice, hastily departed to see that the incident was adequately described at the farmhouse. And thus Helen and Atherton were left alone.

Little by little, Atherton's composure returned. The world ceased revolving; his heart beats steadied; and immediately he was admiringly conscious of the girl's courage and skill. So that presently, forgetting for the moment his efforts at disguise, he exclaimed with all sincerity, "I don't see how you did it! There's no doubt you saved my life!"

But the girl was evidently not thinking of her own share in the rescue. "If I did," she answered, "I am glad. But you were very brave. It was a great risk to take for a dog."

"Well, I always liked dogs," he pleaded in extenuation, "and he was a cunning little rascal, too. He looked so tiny and helpless down there in the water; it didn't really seem quite fair."

There was silence. For Atherton, the world had suddenly taken on new and brighter colors, for the girl's expression plainly showed her admiration for his act. And at length, summoning all his courage, he asked, "If I should ask you a truthful question, would you give me a truthful answer?"

Far down in the depths of her eyes there gleamed a sparkle of merriment, but otherwise her face was quite grave as she responded, "Of course." And with the slightest possible accent upon the pronoun, she added, "I am always truthful."

But he did not choose to notice the implication. "Then," he asked, "when you saw me last night, did you think I appeared to be an ordinary, everyday chauffeur, or did you notice any signs of--what shall I call it--of a gentleman in reduced circumstances?"

"As for reduced circumstances," she answered promptly, "I never gave that a thought, but as for thinking you were a gentleman, yes, that certainly occurred to me. And really, Mr. Atherton--" again, though ever so slightly, she stressed the "Mr."--"I fear that the theatre isn't your vocation. Your conception--that is the word, isn't it--your conception of the chauffeur's part is very crude indeed. It is a quite frightful combination of a stage Englishman and a vaudeville butler."