LITMIR.BIZ

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      Oh, what a ringing cheer answered him—shouts of joy at the rescue; shouts of praise at his bravery!

      In the meanwhile the steamer had been stopped, and a little boat let down. The men rowed quickly to Hawthorne, and drew him and his burden into safety.

      The whole affair had passed off very quickly, but only the strength and bravery of one man had saved pretty Geraldine from a grave beneath the deep, sparkling waves of the beautiful Hudson.

      As it was, she had sustained no injury, and soon recovered consciousness, looking about her with dazed eyes, to find her rescuer kneeling by her side, gazing at her with eager, dark-blue eyes, full of yearning anxiety.

      "Oh, you need not look so frightened, Mr. Hawthorne. She is all right now, and I'm going to take her down stairs and lend her some of my dry clothes!" cried a gay voice, and the pretty young married woman to whom he had been about to introduce Geraldine when she fell into the river, now took the girl in charge and led her down stairs, saying, cheerily:

      "You'll be all right directly. I'm going to get you some wine, and have you lie down and rest a while when you get on some dry clothes. Oh, you don't know my name, do you?

      "I am Mrs. Stansbury, and Harry Hawthorne was bringing me over to see you when you fell into the water. A mercy you wern't drowned, isn't it? You certainly would have been, only for his bravery."

      Closeted in the little state-room, she continued:

      "How fortunate that I brought along a little steamer trunk, expecting to spend several days with my mother in Newburgh. I can lend you an outfit, for we are almost the same size, aren't we? But I'll wager that Harry Hawthorne will not be able to borrow a suit big enough for him, and will have to remain 'in durance vile' until his own clothes are dry."

      Her words proved true, and she and Geraldine did not see the handsome fireman again until just before they landed, when he joined them, looking fresh and bright, and none the worse for his ducking, excusing his absence by saying, gayly, that he had been hung over a line to dry.

      His eager eyes sought Geraldine's, and he said, tenderly:

      "You feel no worse for your wetting, I hope?"

      "No, indeed, thanks to the coddling of Mrs. Stansbury and the other ladies, but"—and her low voice broke with grateful emotion—"how can I ever thank you enough?"

      "Let my own keen joy in saving your life be my reward," he answered, lightly, but with an undercurrent of joy in his deep, musical voice, for it seemed to him that had she perished beneath the cruel, darkling waves, life would never have seemed the same to him again.

      Yet he knew that it might never be possible to win her for his own. His rival, the handsome actor, might already be lord of her girlish heart.

      The bustle of landing cut short any further interchange of words between them, and when they stepped on shore, Mrs. Stansbury said, in her cordial way:

      "I have claimed Miss Harding for my mother's guest, and she will go with me to the ball to-night, and return to New York with you to-morrow. Now, I see mamma's carriage waiting. Will you come with us to luncheon before we go out to the parade?"

      "I thank you, no, for some of the fellows are waiting for me now. But I will see you later. Au revoir!"

      He smiled frankly at Geraldine, touched his cap, and hurried away, seeming to take away some of the sunshine with him, for her heart had gone out to him in a great wave of tenderness that blotted out the memory of Clifford Standish as though he had never existed.

      She looked at her companion, and asked, naively:

      "Why did you say I would go to the ball? I have no dress to wear."

      "What does that matter? I have several sisters. One of them can lend you a white silk, I'm sure. Why, you pretty darling, I wouldn't have you miss that ball for the world! Perhaps you will meet your fate there!"

       CHAPTER IV.

      "TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT."

      It seemed like a pretty act in a new play to Geraldine, the crowding events of that delightful day.

      To be welcomed so cordially by Mrs. Stansbury's gentle mother, to ride through the crowded and gayly decorated streets, in the private carriage, to the hospitable red brick house full of pretty fun-loving girls, and to be installed as an honored guest in a dainty chamber, was a treat to the little working-girl whose life flowed in such a narrow groove of toil and poverty, and she thought, generously:

      "Oh, I am very fortunate to find such kind friends, and I will always love them for their goodness to me. How I wish Cissy had come with me, for she would enjoy this so much."

      Mrs. Stansbury entered with a great fluff of silk and lace over her arm, saying, cheerily:

      "Here's the ball-gown I promised for to-night—Carrie's gown that she wore when she graduated last year. No, she doesn't need it. She has a blue silk-and-chiffon affair for the ball; so you'll be all right, won't you? And now let's go and have our luncheon, for we must hurry down town, where we have windows engaged to sit in and watch the parade. Oh, dear, I'm so sorry that my hubby, the captain, couldn't get away and come with us!"

      They had a delightful luncheon, very enjoyable after their morning on the water, then the party of six—Mrs. Stansbury, her mother, Mrs. Odell, and her three daughters, Carrie, Consuelo, and Daisy, with pretty Geraldine—set out for the centre of attraction, Newburgh's "triangular square" at the junction of Water and Colden streets. Here the party had two large plate-glass windows over a splendid dry-goods store. From this vantage ground the scene presented, as the magnificent parade filed past, was one to be treasured long in memory.

      It was a glittering spectacle, with thirty companies in line, and almost as many bands. Newburgh had not seen such a great day as this for years, with its glorious sunshine, brilliant uniforms, dazzling apparatus, splendid music, and throngs of appreciative people.

      The crowd was enormous, the broad pavements packed with a living mass of humanity; the door-ways, balconies, windows, house-tops, a sea of faces. When the dazzling pageant swept by, the effect was kaleidoscopic. The bright gay uniforms of the fine-looking men, the beautiful caparisons of the prancing horses, the heavily plated, imposing engines, the light and graceful carriages, with their paintings and stripings, their images and lamps, their glass-and-gold reel-heads, their silver and gold jackets—all gleamed and glittered in the flashing sunlight like an Arabian Night's dream, and the hearty applause of the gazing crowds made the welkin ring.

      Geraldine was charmed with everything, and her lovely, smiling face caught the upraised admiring glance of many a gallant fireman as the long column of thirty companies swept past to the ringing martial music of the accompanying bands. She forgot all her resentment against Cissy in her poignant regret that her chum was missing all this splendor and enjoyment.

      But, strange to say, not one regretful thought wandered toward her lost cavalier, Clifford Standish.

      She had forgotten him for the time, and her whole soul was thrilled with the present—permeated, enraptured with the thought of Harry Hawthorne, the handsome, dashing fireman who had so nobly saved her life. She loved him already, but she did not know her heart's language yet—her heart that had already elected him its king.

      What though his position was an humble one, it was equal to hers, and Geraldine had never reflected that beauty like her own ought to win her a fine rich lover. She was in a whirl of bliss at the all-pervading thought that she had met her fate at last.

      "He is mine, and I am his," ran the secret voice of her tender heart.

      She

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