ou," answered Dorothy demurely; "but oh dear me!
kittens 'are such a constant source of worry and anxiety!' Auntie
Lisbeth sometimes says that about Reginald and me. I wonder what she
would say if we were kittens!"

"Bye the bye, where is your Auntie Lisbeth?" I asked in a strictly
conversational tone.

"Well, she's lying in the old boat."

"In the old boat!" I repeated.

"Yes," nodded Dorothy; "when it's nice and warm and sleepy, like
to-day, she takes a book, and a pillow, and a sunshade, and she goes
and lies in the old boat under the Water-stairs. There, just look at
this naughty Louise!" she broke off, as the kitten scrambled up to her
shoulder and stood there, balancing itself very dextrously with curious
angular movements of its tail; "that's because she thinks I've
forgotten her milk, you know; she's dreadfully impatient, but I suppose
I must humour her this once. Good-afternoon!" And, having given me
her hand in her demure, old-fashioned way, Dorothy hurried off, the
kitten still perched upon her shoulder, its tail jerking spasmodically
with her every step.

In a little while I came in view of the Water-stairs, yet although I
paused more than once to look about me, I saw no sign of the Imp.
Thinking he was most probably 'in ambush' somewhere, I continued my
way, whistling an air out of "The Geisha" to attract his notice. Ten
minutes or more elapsed, however, without any sign of him, and I was
already close to the stairs, when I stopped whistling all at once, and
holding my breath, crept forward on tiptoe.

There before me was the old boat, and in it--her cheek upon a crimson
cushion and the sun making a glory of her tumbled hair--was
Lisbeth--asleep.

Being come as near as I dared for fear of waking her, I sat down, and
lighting my pipe, fell to watching her--the up-curving shadow of her
lashes, the gleam of teeth between the scarlet of her parted lips, and
the soft undulation of her bosom. And from the heavy braids of her
hair my glance wandered down to the little tan shoe peeping at me
beneath her skirt, and I called to mind how Goethe has said:

'A pretty foot is not only a continual joy, but it is the one element
of beauty that defies the assaults of Time.'

Sometimes a butterfly hovered past, a bee filled the air with his
drone, or a bird settled for a moment upon the stairs near-by to preen
a ruffled feather, while soft and drowsy with distance came the
ceaseless roar of the weir.

I do