_A secluded spot in the Maine woods in the neighborhood of a
summer hotel. It is the middle of July. The trees are covered
with foliage, a hot sun casts dancing shadows upon the mossy
ground, and the air is full of the twittering of birds and the
rustle of leaves. A winding path crosses from one side to the
other, and near the center is a little clearing: the stump of a
felled tree, with the lichen-covered trunk itself near it, and a
patch of grassy turf. The eye cannot penetrate far through the
riotously growing underbrush, but as one looks upwards, to the
left, a thinning of foliage, allowing a glimpse of the sky, gives
evidence of the near proximity of some small body of water._
_As the curtain rises the scene is empty. There is only the song
of birds, and the whisper of a gentle breeze. For a few seconds
nothing else is heard. Then, suddenly, not far away, there is the
sound of a splash, followed by the scream of a drowning woman,
"Help! Help! Help!" There is a tremendous crashing through the
underbrush, and another voice, very masculine, very English,
shouts, "Where are you? Where are you?" Rather indefinitely the
first speaker answers, "Here! Help! Help!" Another crashing
through the underbrush, followed by a second splash, and
presently, after a short pause, there enters upon the stage a
tall, much bedraggled Englishman, bearing in his arms the
motionless body of an extremely good-looking girl. Both of them
are very wet, and a trail of water marks their progress across
the scene. Reaching the clearing, the Englishman methodically
deposits the girl on the ground, backs away a foot or so, and
notices that his hands are wet. He reaches into a hip pocket and
draws forth a handkerchief: the handkerchief is wetter than his
hands. With a gesture of vexation he throws it away, and gives
his attention to the girl. He looks at her quizzically; then,
rather timidly, he kneels at her side, and lays his ear over her
heart. He rises promptly with a satisfied nod, carefully removes
his dripping coat, folds it neatly, and places it on the log.
Again he kneels, this time with his knees on either side of the
girl's head, and laboriously begins to apply the Sylvester
method, counting audibly as he does so. At "ten" he stops
wearily, pauses, and again applies his ear to her heart. The
result is evidently pleasing, and after a few more Sylvester
movements, he begins to vary the procedure by removing her shoes
and alternately chafing her hands and feet. Presently she sighs
deeply. For the third time he pauses to listen to her heart.
Slowly and deliberately her left arm rises, to encircle his neck
in a confiding clasp. He sits back on his haunches, politely
surprised._
SHE. (_Faintly_) Mother! Mother, dear!
HE. Eh?