ominously. There was a gasp, a scuffle. Roy hung on valiantly, dragging
her nearer for a firmer foothold.

And suddenly down below Prince began to bark--a deep, booming note of
welcome.

"Hullo, Roy!" It was his father's voice. "Are you murdering Tara up
there? Come out of it!"

Roy, having lost his footing, was in no position to look down--or to
disobey: and they proceeded to come out of it, with rather more haste
than dignity.

Roy, swinging from a high branch for his final jump--a bit of pure
bravado because he felt nervous inside--discovered, with mingled terror
and joy, that his vagrant foot had narrowly shaved Aunt Jane's neat hard
summer hat: Aunt Jane--of all people--at such a moment, when you
couldn't properly explain. He half wished he _had_ kicked the fierce
little feather and broken its back----

He was on the ground now, shaking hands with her, his sensitive
clean-cut face a mask of mere politeness: and Tara was standing by
him--a jagged hole in her blue frock, a scratch across her cheek, and
her hair ribbon gone--looking suspiciously as if he had been trying to
murder her instead of doing her a knightly service.

She couldn't help it, of course. But still--it was a distinct score for
Aunt Jane, who, as usual, went straight to the point.

"You nearly kicked my head just now. A little gentleman would