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The water would soon be low enough, he decided, though the end of the suspension foot-bridge hung very near surface. The rains had come in a sudden flood that year, delaying sport he had planned, in which the island was to play an important part. All the excited nerves in his body that had been resting were tingling again. He could feel his temples throb, count the beats of his heart. For a time nothing happened. He heard no different sounds, though he strained his ears nervously. The moments passed and seemed hours. He crouched motionless, but his stillness was not repose. “Mary Ellen Smith; but my mama calls me May Nell; and she says—she says ‘kid’ is vulgar.” The last words were very shy. Visitors! He saw them through the window. Every step was growing more painful,—he must get to his room. The space from the woodshed roof to the tower room, before so easily surmounted by a swinging jump, looked now as high and far as Mount Whitney. Back to the window he turned. The firelight was dancing on the walls. Sister Edith was talking gayly to neighbors who were standing near the door, and May Nell was snuggled beside his mother on the couch, the great yellow cat, or a part of him, sprawling on her small lap..