and her straw hat lies back upon them, held
only by the strip of ribbon, that passes under her chin. But the sun
does not shine upon her head; for the oak tree above us is full of
leaves; and only here and there, a dimple of the sunlight plays upon the
pool, where I am fishing.

Her eye is hazel, and bright; and now and then she turns it on me with a
look of girlish curiosity, as I lift up my rod--and again in playful
menace, as she grasps in her little fingers one of the dead fish, and
threatens to throw it back upon the stream. Her little feet hang over
the edge of the bank; and from time to time, she reaches down to dip her
toe in the water; and laughs a girlish laugh of defiance, as I scold
her for frightening away the fishes.

"Bella," I say, "what if you should tumble in the river?"

"But I won't."

"Yes, but if you should?"

[Illustration: SHE REACHES DOWN TO DIP HER TOE]

"Why then you would pull me out."

"But if I wouldn't pull you out?"

"But I know you would; wouldn't you, Paul?"

"What makes you think so, Bella?"

"Because you love Bella."

"How do you know I love Bella?"

"Because once you told me so; and because you pick flowers for me that I
cannot reach; and because you let me take your rod, when you have a fish
upon it."

"But that's no reason, Bella."

"Then what is, Paul?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Bella."

A little fish has been nibbling for a long time at the bait; the cork
has been bobbing up and down--and now he is fairly hooked, and pulls
away toward the bank, and you cannot see the cork.

"Here, Bella, quick!"--and she springs eagerly to clasp her little hands
around the rod. But the fish has dragged it away on the other side of
me; and as she reaches farther, and farther, she slips, cries--"Oh,
Paul!" and falls into the water.

The stream, they told us when we came, was over a man's head--it is
surely over little Isabel's. I fling down the rod, and thrusting one
hand into the roots that support the overhanging bank, I grasp at her
hat, as she comes up; but the ribbons give way, and I see the terribly
earnest look upon her face as she goes down again. Oh, my
mother--thought I--if you were only here!

But she rises again; this time, I thrust my hand into her dress, and
struggling hard, keep her at the top, until I can place my foot down
upon a projecting root; and so bracing myself, I drag her to the bank,
and having climbed up, take hold of her belt firmly with both han