Stafford listened to the echo, which was almost as soft and sweet as the girl's notes.

"What a wonderful voice you have!" he said, almost unconsciously. "I never heard a sweeter. What was that you sang?"

"That thing of Wagner's," she replied; and quite naturally she began the air and sang it through.

Stafford let the boat drift and leant upon the oars, his eyes fixed on her face, a rapt and very eloquent admiration in his own.

"Ah--beautiful!" he said in a low voice. "What a delight it must be to you to be able to sing like that! I can understand a whole theatre crying over that song sung as you sing it!"

She glanced at him with an affectation of languid amus.e.m.e.nt; but she was watching him intently.

"That's not the best in the opera," she said. "I like this better;" and she sang the "Swan" song; sang it so low that he leant forward to catch the notes which flowed like silver from her soft, red lips; and when she finished it he drew a long breath and still leant forward looking at her.

"Thank you, thank you!" he said, with so much of admiration and grat.i.tude in his voice, that, as if to apologise for it, he said: "I'm fond of music. But I'm forgetting your tea! Shall we pull back to the Ferry Hotel and get some?"

"I'm in your hands," she replied, languidly.

He turned-the boat and pulled back along the centre of the lake in silence. Suddenly she bent forward.

"There is something in the water," she said; "something alive."

"It's a--yes, it's a dog," he said. "That is what you saw drop over the steamer. By George! the poor little chap looks in distress: seems as if he were nearly done. Can you steer?" he asked, sharply.

"Oh, yes," she replied, languidly. "Why?"

"Because I'm going for him, and it will help me if you can steer straight for him. He looks nearly played out."

"Why should you trouble--it's a long way off; it will be drowned before you can get to it," she said.

"I'll have to go for it anyway," he said, cheerfully; and he began to row hard.

Distance is deceptive on a lake, and the dog was farther off than they thought; but Stafford put his back into it as hard as he had done in his racing days, and Maude Falconer leant back and watched him with interest, and something even stronger than interest, in her masked eyes. He had turned up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, and the muscles on his arms were standing out under the strain, his lips were set tightly, and there was the man's frown of determination on his brow.

"It has gone down: it's no use," she said. "You may as well stop and rest."

He looked over his shoulder.

"No! He has come up again!" he exclaimed: it was noticeable that he called the dog "he," while she spoke of it as "it." "We shall get him in time. Keep the boat straight!"

The words were uttered in a tone of command, and they moved her as the touch of his hand had done; and she set her mind upon the task as she had never before set it upon anything.

Reaching well forward, pulling with the long, steady stroke of the practised oarsman, Stafford sent the boat along like an arrow, and presently he drove it up to the spot where the dog strove in its death straggle.

It was a tiny black-and-tan terrier, and Stafford, as he looked over his shoulder, saw the great eyes turned to him with a piteous entreaty that made his heart ache.

"Turn the boat--quick!" he cried; and as the skiff slid alongside the dog, he swooped it up.

The mite gave a little gasping cry like a child, and closing its eyes sank into Stafford's arms with a shudder.

"Is it dead?" asked Maude Falconer, looking not at the dog but at Stafford, for his face, which had been red with exertion a moment ago, had become suddenly pale.

"I don't know--no!" he said, absently, all his thoughts centered on the dog.

He wiped it as dry as he could with his blazer, then turning aside, he opened his shirt and put the cold morsel in his bosom.

"Poor little beggar, he's like ice!" he said, in a low voice. "He would never have got to the sh.o.r.e; he's so small. If I'd some brandy! We'll get some at the ferry. Can you row?"

"No," she said. "Yes; I mean, I'll try."

He held out his hand.

"Mind how you cross. Take off your gloves first, or you'll blister your hands."

She obeyed, her eyes downcast. They exchanged places and he showed her how to hold the sculls.

"You'll do very well. You can row as slowly as you like. He's alive; I can feel him move! Poor little chap! Sorry to trouble you, Miss Falconer, but the only chance of saving him is to keep him warm."

She was silent far a moment, then she glanced at him.

"You're fond of dogs?"

"Why, of course," he answered. "Aren't you?"

"Y-es; but I don't think I'd risk pneumonia for one. You were feverishly hot just now, and that little beast must be stone cold; you'll get bronchitis or something, Mr. Orme."

"Not I!" he laughed, almost scornfully. "He's pulling round, poor little beast! Here we are."

He reached for his coat and wrapped the terrier in it, and quite unconscious of the girl's watchful eyes, held the little black-and-tan head to his face for a moment.

"All right now?" he murmured. "You've had a narrow squeak for it, old chappie!" With the dog under his arm, he helped Maude Falconer ash.o.r.e and led the way to the hotel.

"Tea," he said to the waiter; "but bring me some brandy and milk first--and look sharp."

Maude sank on to one of the benches in the beautiful garden in the centre of the lake and looked straight before her; and Stafford cuddled the dog up to him and looked impatiently for the waiter, greeting him when he came with:

"What an infernal time you're been!"

Then he poured a little of the brandy down the dog's throat, and bending over him repeated the close three or four times; and presently the mite stirred and moved its head, and opening its eyes looked up into Stafford's, and weakly putting out its tongue, licked his hand.

Stafford laughed--for the well-known reason.

"Plucky little chap, isn't he?" he said, with a moved man's affectation of levity. "He's made a splendid fight for it and won through. He's a pretty little morsel--a well-bred 'un: wonder whom he belongs to?"

"To you--at least his life does," said Maude Falconer. "You couldn't have fought harder for it if it had been a human being."

"Oh, a dog's the next thing, you know," he said, apologetically. "I'm afraid it's been an awful nuisance and trouble for you. You haven't blistered your hands, I hope? Let me see!"

She stretched out her hands, palm upwards, and he took them and examined them.