I speak never a word; but I rise up hastily, and, letting my novel fall heavily prone on the pit of its stomach at the punt-bottom, I take a flying leap to shore--_toward_ shore, I should rather say--for I am never a good jumper--Tou Tou's lean spider-legs can always outstride me--and now I fall an inch or two short, and draw one leg out booted with river-mud.

But I pay no heed.

I hurry on, pushing through the brambles, and leaving a piece of my gown on each.

Before I have gone five yards--his length of limb and freedom from petticoats giving him the advantage over me--he overtakes me.
"What _has_ happened?
at this rate you will not have much gown left by the time you reach the house." To my excited ears, there seems to be a suspicion of laughter in his voice.

I disdain to answer.