“I'm afraid you'd have spilt the pail that time,” she said, with a slightly heightened color, as she disengaged herself gently from his arm.
“No,” he answered boldly, “for the pail never would have stiffened itself in a tiff, and tried to go alone.”
“Of course not, if it were only a pail,” she responded.
They moved on again in silence. The trail was growing a little steeper toward the upper end and the road bank. Bray was often himself obliged to seek the friendly aid of a manzanita or thornbush to support them. Suddenly she stopped and caught his arm. “There!” she said. “Listen! They're coming!”
Bray listened; he could hear at intervals a far-off shout; then a nearer one—a name—“Eugenia.” So that was HERS!
“Shall I shout back?” he asked.
“Not yet!” she answered. “Are we near the top?” A sudden glow of pleasure came over him—he knew not why, except that she did not look delighted, excited, or even relieved.
“Only a few yards more,” he said, with an unaffected half sigh.
“Then I'd better untie this,” she suggested, beginning to fumble at the knot of the handkerchief which linked them.
Their heads were close together, their fingers often met; he would have liked to say something, but he could only add: “Are you sure you will feel quite safe? It is a little steeper as we near the bank.”