The woman gained her self-possession first, and with it an
animal instinct to fly from him, swiftly through the bushes.
But her flight was delayed. A stick, whirling in the current, caught
between the pail's rim and handle and ground against her fingers. With
an angry cry she loosed her hold, and the bucket went careening into
midstream. That she had come back to harmony with her surroundings was
attested by the wail of chagrin with which she greeted the accident.
It was the last pail she had left. She watched Courant wade into the
water after it, and forgot to run in her anxiety to see if he would get
it. "Oh, good!" came from her in a gasp as he caught the handle. But
when he came splashing back and set it on the rock beside her, it
suddenly lost its importance, and as suddenly she became a prey to
low-voiced, down-looking discomfort. A muttered "thank you," was all
the words she had for him, and she got to her feet with looks directed
to the arrangement of her skirt.
He stood knee-high in the water watching her, glad of her down-drooped
lids, for he could dwell on the bloom that deepened under his eye.
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