"My feet slip
so," she said.
It became fascinating to watch her. The fun of it--the pleasure of
seeing a girl wade a brook, innocently immodest, suddenly ceased for
Neale. There was something else. He had only meant to tease; he was
going to carry her; he started back. And then he halted. There was a
strange earnestness in Allie's face--a deliberateness in her intent,
out of all proportion to the exigency of the moment. It was as if
she must cross that brook. But she kept halting. "Come on!" Neale
called. And she moved again. Every time this happened she seemed to
be compelled to go on. When she got into the swift water, nearly to
her knees, then she might well have faltered. Yet she did not
falter. All at once Neale discovered that she was weak. She did not
have the strength to come on. It was that which made her slip and
halt. What then made her try so bravely? How strange that she tried
at all! Stranger than all was her peculiar attitude toward the task
--earnest, sober, grave, forced.
Neale was suddenly seized with surprise and remorse. That which
actuated this girl Allie was merely the sound of his voice--the
answer to his demand. He plunged in and reached her just as she was
slipping. He carried her back to the side from which she had
started. It cost him an effort not to hold her close.
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