ody takes any notice of this outrageous speech. It is passed over
very properly in the deadliest silence.

"By Jove!" says Sir Mark, presently, "there's Macpherson down again.
That's the eighteenth time; I've counted it."

"He can't skate a little screw," says Dicky. "It's a pity to be looking
at him. It only raises angry passions in one's breast. He ought to go
home and put his head in a bag."

"A well-floured one," responded Sir Mark.

Portia laughs. Her laugh is always the lowest, softest thing imaginable.

"Charitable pair," she says.

"Why, the fellow can't stand," says Mr. Browne, irritably. "And he looks
so abominably contented with himself and his deplorable performance.
That last time he was merely trying to get from that point there to
that," waving his hand in both directions. "Any fool could do it. See,
I'll show you." He jumps to his feet, gets on to the ice, essays to do
what Captain Macpherson had tried to do, and succeeds in doing exactly
what Captain Macpherson _did_. That is to say, he instantly comes a most
tremendous cropper right in front of Portia.

Red, certainly, but consumed with laughter at his own defeat, he returns
to her side. There is no use in attempting it, nothing earthly could
have power to subdue Dicky's spirits. He is quite as delighted at his
own discomfiture as if it had happened to somebody else.

"You were right, Dicky," says Sir Mark, when he can speak, "_Any_ fool
could do it. _You_ did it."

"I did," says Dicky, roaring with laughter; "with a vengeance. Never
mind--

'Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.'"

"I hardly think I follow you," says Sir Mark. "Where's the dust, Dicky,
and where's the just? I can't see either of them."

"My dear fellow, never be literal; nothing is so--so boring," says Mr.
Browne, with conviction. "I'm," striking his chest, "the dust, and
there," pointing to the lake, "is the just, and--no, by-the-by, that
don't sound right--I mean--"

"Oh, never mind it," says Sir Mark.

Dulce and Roger having skated by this time past all the others, and
safely over a rather shaky part of the ice that leaves them at the very
farthest corner of the lake, stop somewhat out of breath and look at
each other triumphantly.

Dulce is looking, if possible, more bonny than usual. Her blood is
aglow, and tingling with the excitement of her late exertion; her hair,
without actually having come undone, is certa