and he did not know how to procure any suitable
footwear in that wilderness.

"Have you ever fished for trout?" he asked, as he began to dig under a
rotting log.

"Yes. In California," she replied, with sudden shadowing of her eyes.

"Let's go down the brook," said Neale, hastily, fearful that he had been
tactless. "There are some fine holes below."

She walked beside him, careful of the sharp stones that showed here and
there. Presently they came to a likely-looking pool.

"If you hook another big one don't try to pull him right out,"
admonished Allie.

Neale could scarcely conceal his delight, and in his effort to appear
natural made a poor showing at this pool, losing two fish and scaring
others so they would not rise.

"Allie, won't you try?" he asked, offering the rod.

"I'd rather look on. You like it so much."

"How do you know that?" he asked, more to hear her talk than from
curiosity.

"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. He slipped in the middle of the brook and nearly fell with
her. Allie squealed. The sound filled Neale with glee. After all, and
whatever she had gone through, she was feminine--she