, as
if, in the course of years, to cover it with the treacherous green
carpet, spread in so many other places over deep black pits; and thus
any attempt to gain foothold and climb out was vain; while, for aught he
could tell, the pool might have been fifty feet deep beneath his feet.

To stay where he was seemed impossible, so, swimming a few yards, he
made to where--partly to rest, partly to think upon the best plan of
procedure--he could tightly grasp a tuft of rushes with his disengaged
hand. But even this was no safeguard, for he could feel that a very
slight effort would be required to draw the tuft from its hold. And
now, for the first time, he turned to gaze earnestly in the pallid face
so close to his, to find the eyes dilate and horror-stricken, while two
little hands were tightly clasped round his neck.

"Do not be alarmed, Miss Gernon," he whispered, his heart throbbing
almost painfully the while. "Give me a few moments to recover breath,
and then I will draw you ashore--or rather," he said, with an
encouraging smile, "on to this treacherous moss."

The smile was intended to chase away the dread of there being imminent
danger, and it had its effect.

"I am not very--very much frightened," she half sobbed, though, unable
to conceal her agitation, she clung to him tightly. "I was picking
marsh flowers when the rushes suddenly gave way beneath my feet."

"The place is very dangerous," said Brace; and then, in an earnest
voice--"Thank Heaven, though, that I was so near at hand."

He paused for a few moments to gaze in her face, and in that brief space
of time danger--the water--all was forgotten as their eyes met, for hers
to fall directly before his loving, earnest look. For there, in spite
of what he had said, in great peril, but with her heart beating against
his, so that he could feel its pulsations, all Brace Norton's
resolutions faded away; and for a moment he thought of how sweet it
would be to die thus--to loose his hold of the rushes, to clasp his
other arm round her, and then, with an end to all the sorrow and
heart-burning of this life, with her clinging to him as she might never
cling again, to let the water close above their heads, and then--

"What a romantic fool I am," thought Brace. "Here, a month ago, I
thought life one of the jolliest things in the world; and now I'm
thinking in this love-sick, unhealthy, French, charcoal-and-brimstone
style of suicide."

The reaction gave his m