"You grow so excited," she said.
Thankfully he accepted the realization that after all these weeks of
silence it was possible to make her speak. But he must exercise
extreme caution. One wrong word might send her back into that
apathy--that senseless, voiceless trance.
In every pool where Neale cast he caught or lost a trout. He was
enjoying himself tremendously and at the same time feeling a warmth
in his heart that was not entirely due to the exhilaration of
fishing. Below the head of the valley, where the stream began and
the cabin nestled, the ground was open, like a meadow, with grass
and flowers growing to the edge of the water. There were deep,
swirling pools running under the banks, and in these Neale hooked
fish he could not handle with his poor tackle, and they broke away.
But he did not care. There was a brightness, a beauty, a fragrance
along the stream that seemed to enhance the farther down he went.
Presently they came to a place where the water rushed over a rocky
bed, and here Neale wanted to cross. He started to wade, curious and
eager to see what Allie would do.
"I can't wade that," she called.
Neale returned to her side. "I'll carry you," he said. "You hold the
rod. We'll leave the fish here." Then he lifted her in his arms. How
light she was--how much lighter than upon that first occasion of his
carrying her.
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