seemed to stretch a restraining hand. His raised fist sank slowly, fell to his side.
"I'll go," he said. "But don't you lay a finger on me."
He walked toward the gate and down the beautiful country road, his brain whirling. He stood for a moment, turned and shook his fist at the house, then walked droopingly on to the station. He was standing there with bitter thoughts fermenting in his heart when a basket-phaeton rolled down the hill to the station. A prim-looking bonne, from whose neat cap streamed two long, broad ribbons, got out, and then assisted a little girl to alight. The dainty child seemed to John MacDowell a veritable fairy. A large hat of some light, white material shaded her small, round face. Her curly hair was of the fluffiest gold. The whole of her diminutive person was clothed in soft white.
As they passed him, the little thing, who was not more than four, just the age of John's younger child, suddenly looked up into his face, with eyes as blue as his own, and broke into the sunniest smile of good-fellowship. It was a democratic touch of innocent, warm, human kinship, and the young workman, sore and broken, and battling with anger and despair, melted under the sunbeam and smiled back on the pretty child. A moment later a sudden scream startled him, and, looking back, he saw the little elf trotting down the wharf as fast as her legs would carry her. She had stolen away from the nurse, and when discovered had broken into a run,
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"don't call me a tramp."
laughing mischievously. Before the nurse could catch her, she had reached the cross-piece of timber at the end of the wharf. She now clambered on to it and started to run its length; but her foot slipped, and in an instant she was in the river.
The nurse stood screaming and wringing her hands. John MacDowell tore down the wharf on a hot run, pulling off his coat as he went. After one glance at the small object drifting away on the current, he sprang into the river and struck out for her. He reached her just as she was sinking. Her gown and puffed-out coat had helped to sustain her till they became drenched. John clutched her garments with one hand, and tried to make his way back. The current was strong, and he had to swim diagonally toward the bank below the wharf. It was hard work. He struggled manfully on. He had not realized before this exertion how much enfeebled he was by low diet, wearing cares, and the weakening heat of the summer. It was only some ten yards now to the shore, but the child weighed on him terribly. His arms were becoming numb, and he could get no air into his compressed lungs.
At last, as a final effort, he seized her with both hands, turned over on his back, and pushed himself along, using only his legs. It was a relief, and though slow, weary work, he hoped he would hold out. Suddenly he felt a stinging blow on the back of his head. He had struck a rock barely submerged. It was the last straw.
