and Rodney Sherrett, picking himself out of the dust with a shake
and a stamp, found his own bones unbroken, and hurried over to ask
anxiously--for he was a kind-hearted fellow--how much harm he had
done, and to express his vehement regret at the "horrid spill."

Rod Sherrett and Sylvie Argenter had danced together at the Roxeter
Assemblies, and the little Dorbury "Germans;" they had boated, and
picknicked, and skated in company, but to be tumbled together into a
baker's shop, torn and frightened, and dusty,--each feeling, also,
in a great scrape,--this was an odd and startling partnership.
Sylvie was pale; Rod was sorry; both were very much demolished as to
dress: Sylvie's hat had got a queer crush, and a tip that was never
intended over her eyes; Rodney's was lying in the street, and his
hair was rumpled and curiously powdered. When they had stood and
looked at each other an instant after the first inquiry and reply,
they both laughed. Then Rodney shrugged his shoulders, and walked
over and picked up his hat.

"It might have been worse," he said, coming back, as Mr. Ingraham
and the man who had held Sylvie's pony took the latter out of the
shafts and led him to a post to fasten him, and then proceeded
together, as well as they could, to lift the disabled phæton and
roll it over to the blacksmith's shop to be set right.

"You'll be all straight directly," he said, "and I'm only thankful
you're not much hurt. But I _am_ in a mess. Whew! What the old
gentleman will say if Duke don't come out of it comfortable, is
something I'd rather not look ahead to. I must go on and see. I'll
be back again, and if there's anything--anything _more_," he added
with a droll twinkle, "that I can do for you, I shall be happy, and