foot clung to
the mossy stone. It was a strong, sinewy, beautiful foot, instinct with
youth. He was curious enough, he thought, but the awakening artist in
him made him more so. She dragged at the full bucket and had difficulty
in lifting it out of the hole. Shefford strode forward and took the
bucket-handle from her.

"Won't you let me help you?" he said, lifting the bucket. "Indeed--it's
very heavy."

"Oh--thank you," she said, without raising her head. Her voice seemed
singularly young and sweet. He had not heard a voice like it. She moved
down the path and he walked beside her. He felt embarrassed, yet more
curious than ever; he wanted to say something, to turn and look at her,
but he kept on for a dozen paces without making up his mind.

Finally he said: "Do you really carry this heavy bucket? Why, it makes
my arm ache."

"Twice every day--morning and evening," she replied. "I'm very strong."

Then he stole a look out of the corner of his eye, and, seeing that her
face was hidden from him by the hood, he turned to observe her at better
advantage. A long braid of hair hung down her back. In the twilight it
gleamed dull gold. She came up to his shoulder. The sleeve nearest him
was rolled up to her elbow, revealing a fine round arm. Her hand, like
her foot, was brown, strong, and well shaped. It was a hand that had
been developed by labor. She was full-bosomed, yet slender, and she
walked with a free stride that made Shefford admire and wonder.

They passed several of the little stone and log houses, and women
greeted them as they went by and children peered shyly from the doors.
He kept trying to think of something to say, and, failing in that,
determined to have one good look under the hood before he left her.

"You walk lame," she said, solicitously. "Let me carry the bucket
now--please. My house is near."

"Am I lame?... Guess so, a little," he replied. "It was a hard ride for
me. But I'll carry the bucket just the same."

They went on under some pinyon-trees, down a path to a little house
identical with the others, except that it had a stone porch. Shefford
smelled fragrant wood-smoke and saw a column curling from the low, flat,
stone chimney. Then he set the bucket down on the porch. "Thank you,
Mr. Shefford," she said. "You know my name?" he asked. "Yes. Mr. Withers
spoke to my nearest neighbor and she told me."

"Oh, I see. And you--"

He did not go on and she did not reply. When she stepped upon