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“Well, you know the other thing to do if you don’t like it,” Billy retorted, bluntly. “She’s my sister till her folks are found, and that isn’t likely.” “Yes, right now.” He stepped nearer, and Bouncer growled and bristled. He threw himself on the bed and wept the bitterest tears he had ever shed in his life, tears of shame. There he lay—hours, he thought—determined to bear his pain and disgrace alone. Yet it was only minutes when he heard his mother in her room, coming!.

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“Jiminy! I’ll have time in the morning,” he said aloud, and hurried on, not slackening his speed till he came to a sharp turn that took the road against the face of a rugged mountain. He hid his wheel and can in a tangle of rose vine and snowdrop, and stood out on the edge of the steep bluff that overhung the rushing river. There bloomed the island. Near the centre a rocky point was aflame with gorgeous poppies; and Billy could smell the fragrance of the snowy wild heliotrope,—pop-corn the children called it. “My conscience! How lovely and stylish you look!” The child, accustomed to elegant dress, praised with discriminating eyes. “Are—are you hurt bad, Jimmy?” came in a quaking voice. Yet before one could think, almost before the paper had time to burn, Jimmy sprang to her, seized her in his arms, tearing at the shrivelling paper, and jumped far out over the flaming boat into a deep pool..