little way up the shore and set her down. I wanted to take her up
to a house near by, where we bought our milk, but she declined to
go until we had saved Pomona.

So I went back to the boat, having carefully wrapped up Euphemia,
to endeavor to save the girl. I found that the boarder had so
arranged the gang-plank that it was possible, without a very great
exercise of agility, to pass from the shore to the boat. When I
first saw him, on reaching the shelving deck, he was staggering up
the stairs with a dining-room chair and a large framed engraving of
Raphael's Dante--an ugly picture, but full of true feeling; at
least so Euphemia always declared, though I am not quite sure that
I know what she meant.

"Where is Pomona?" I said, endeavoring to stand on the hill-side of
the deck.

"I don't know," said he, "but we must get the things out. The
tide's rising and the wind's getting up. The boat will go over
before we know it."

"But we must find the girl," I said. "She can't be left to drown."

"I don't think it would matter much," said he, getting over the
side of the boat with his awkward load. "She would be of about as
much use drowned as any other way. If it hadn't been for that hole
she cut in the side of the boat, this would never have happened."

"You don't think it was that!" I said, holding the picture and the
chair while he let himself down to the gang-plank.