A Daughter of the Dons. William MacLeod Raine
shock.
"Can you get your arm through the loop?" cried the girl.
His arms were like lead, and almost powerless. With one hand he knew he could not hang on. Nor did he try longer than for that one desperate instant when he shot his fist through the loop. The wall of water swept him away, but the taut rope swung him shoreward.
Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the strong current for the body of the almost unconscious man; fought steadily and strongly, for there was strength in the small wrists and compact muscle in the shapely arms. She was waist deep in the water before she won, for from above she could find no purchase for the lift.
The fisherman's opening eyes looked into dark anxious ones that gazed at him from beneath the longest lashes he had ever seen. He had an odd sense of being tangled up in them and being unable to escape, of being both abashed and happy in his imprisonment. What he thought was: "They don't have eyes like those out of heaven." What he said was entirely different.
"Near thing. Hadn't been for you I wouldn't have made it."
At his words she rose from her knees to her full height, and he saw that she was slenderly tall and fashioned of gracious curves. The darkness of her clear skin was emphasized by the mass of blue-black hair from which little ears peeped with exquisite daintiness. The mouth was sweet and candid, red-lipped, with perfect teeth just showing in the full arch. The straight nose, with its sensitive nostrils, proclaimed her pure patrician.
"You are wet," he cried. "You went in after me."
She looked down at her dripping skirts, and laughter rippled over her face like the wind in golden grain. It brought out two adorable dimples near the tucked-in corners of her mouth.
"I am damp," she conceded.
"Why did you do it? The water might have swept you away," he chided, coming to a sitting posture.
"And if I hadn't it might have swept you away," she answered, with a flash of her ivory teeth.
He rose and stood before her.
"You risked your life to save mine."
"Is it not worth it, sir?"
"That ain't for me to say. The point is, you took the chance."
Her laughter bubbled again. "You mean, I took the bath."
"I expect you'll have to listen to what I've got to say, ma'am."
"Are you going to scold me? Was I precipitate? Perhaps you were attempting suicide. Forgive, I pray."
He ignored her raillery, and told her what he thought of a courage so fine and ready. He permitted a smile to temper his praise, as he added: "You mustn't go jumping in the river after strangers if you don't want them to say, 'Thank you kindly.' You find four out of five of them want to, don't you?"
"It is not yet a habit of mine. You're the first"
"I hope I'll be the last."
She began to wring out the bottom of her skirt, and he was on his knees at once to do it for her.
"That will do very nicely," she presently said, the color billowing her cheeks.
He gathered wood and lit a fire, being fortunate enough to find his match-case had been waterproof. He piled on dry branches till the fire roared and licked out for the moisture in their clothes.
"I've been wondering how you happened to see me in the water," he said. "You were riding past, I expect?"
"No, I was sketching. I saw you when you came up to eat your lunch, and I watched you go back to the river."
"Do you live near here, then?" he asked.
"About three miles away."
"And you were watching me all the time?" He put his statement as a question.
"No, I wasn't," the young woman answered indignantly. "You happened to be in the landscape."
"A blot in it," he suggested. "A hop-toad splashing in the puddle."
The every-ready dimples flashed out at this. "You did make quite a splash when you went in. The fish must have thought it was a whale."
"And when I told you the water was fine, and you came in, too, they probably took you for a naiad."
She thanked him with an informal little nod.
"I thought you Anglo-Saxons did not give compliments."
"I don't," he immediately answered.
"Oh! If that isn't another one, I'm mistaken, sir." She turned indifferently away, apparently of the opinion that she had been quite friendly enough to this self-possessed young stranger.
Rewinding the lariat, she fastened it to the saddle, then swung to the seat before he could step forward to aid her.
"I hope you will suffer no bad effects from your bath," he said.
"I shall not; but I'm afraid you will. You were in long enough to get thoroughly chilled. Adios, señor."
He called to her before the pony had taken a dozen steps:
"Your handkerchief, señorita!"
She turned in the saddle and waited for him to bring it. He did so, and she noticed that he limped badly.
"You have hurt yourself," she said quickly.
"I must have jammed my knee against a rock," he explained. "Nothing serious."
"But it pains?"
"Just enough to let me know it's there."
Frowning, she watched him.
"Is it a bruise or a sprain?"
"A wrench, I think. It will be all right if I favor it"
"Favor it? Except the ranch, there is no place nearer than seven miles. You are staying at Corbett's, I presume?"
"Yes."
"You can't walk back there to-night. That is certain." She slipped from the saddle. "You'll have to go back to the ranch with me, sir. I can walk very well."
He felt a wave of color sweep his face.
"I couldn't take the horse and let you walk."
"That is nonsense, sir. You can, and you shall."
"If I am to take your horse I need not saddle myself upon your hospitality. I can ride back to Corbett's, and send the horse home to-morrow."
"It is seven miles to Miguel's, and Corbett's is three beyond that. No doctor would advise that long ride before your knee receives attention, I think, sir, you will have to put up with the ranch till to-morrow."
"You ain't taking my intention right. All I meant was that I didn't like to unload myself on your folks; but if you say I'm to do it I'll be very happy to be your guest." He said it with a touch of boyish embarrassment she found becoming.
"We'll stop at the top of the hill and take on my drawing things," she told him.
He need have had no fears for her as a walker, for she was of the elect few born to grace of motion. Slight she was, yet strong; the delicacy that breathed from her was of the spirit, and consisted with perfect health. No Grecian nymph could have trod with lighter or surer step nor have unconsciously offered to the eye more supple and beautiful lines of limb and body.
Never had the young man seen before anybody whose charm went so poignantly to the root of his emotions. Every turn of the head, the set of the chin, the droop of the long, thick lashes on the soft cheek, the fling of a gesture, the cadence of her voice; they all delighted and fascinated him. She was a living embodiment of joy-in-life, of love personified.
She packed her sketches and her paraphernalia with businesslike directness, careless of whether he did or did not see her water-colors.