truggling with the refractory rope.

It doesn't take any time to cross the boundary.

"Will you allow me to do that for you?" says the strange young man,
raising his hat politely, and taking the rope out of Monica's hand
without waiting for permission.

CHAPTER IV.

How Monica makes a most important discovery and, changing suddenly
from "lively to severe," is reprehensibly cruel to a most
unoffending young man.

"You are very kind," says Monica slowly, feeling not so much
embarrassment as surprise at this sudden advent.

Then the young man looses the rope, and, having done so, casts a cursory
glance at the boat to which it is attached. As he does so, he lifts his
brows.

"Surely you are not dreaming of going on the river in _that_!" he says,
indicating the wretched punt by a contemptuous wave of his hand.

"Yes. Why not?" returns she.

"There isn't a sound bit of timber in her. What _can_ your people be
thinking of, to let you trust yourself in such a miserable affair?"

"My people have nothing to do with it," says Monica, somewhat grandly.
"I am _my own mistress_."

She has picked up her flowers again out of the despised punt, and now
stands before him with her hands filled with the June blossoms, blue,
and white, and red. They show bravely against the pallor of her gown,
and seem, indeed, to harmonize altogether with her excessive fairness,
for her lips are as red as her poppies, and her cornflowers as blue as
her eyes, and her skin puts her drooping daisies all to shame.

"As you _are_ your own mistress," says the young man, with a suspicion
of a smile, as he takes in the baby sweetness of her mouth, and each
detail of her slight girlish figure, that bespeaks the child rather than
the woman, "I entreat you to have mercy upon _yourself_."

"But what is the matter with it?" asks Monica, peering into the boat.
"It _looks_ all right; I can't see a hole in it."

"It's nothing _but_ holes, in my opinion," says the strange young man,
peering in his turn. "It's a regular _coffin_. You will be committing
nothing less than suicide if you put your foot in it."

"Dear me," says Monica, blankly, feeling impressed in spite of herself,
"I do think I am the most unfortunate person alive. Do you know,"
lifting her eyes to his, "I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking of
this row on the river to-day, and now it comes to nothing! That is just
like my luck always. I was so bent on it; I wanted to get r