"Come," I added; "I must get some water from the creek, and I'll go that far with you—farther, if you will let me, because it will be late before you get home."
"Oh, no!" she burst out, with what looked like unnecessary vehemence. Then her agile mind took a turn, and she added—"But why don't yo' git yo' water out o' the well?"
I forebore to correct her. The lesson was over, and I must not worry her.
"Well?" I repeated, open mouthed. "What well?"
"The well over yonder—the well the man dug!"
She pointed to a distant corner of the yard, overrun with a heterogeneous mass of greenery.
I almost gasped. A well had been here under my nose all these weeks, a well of cool, good water, and I had been slaving rebelliously to supply my needs from the creek below, which had lately become infested with tadpoles!
"Show it to me!" I cried.
With a hearty "All right!" she started running, and I followed at a smart walk. It was just like her to run. She was a creature of impulse. I watched her skimming over the ground, lightly leaping little obstacles, her wheat-gold hair all a-tremble. When I came up she had a stick, and was diligently prodding about in the weeds, vines and brambles.
"It's here," she muttered, intent on her business. "I've saw it, 'n' drunk out o' it. It's jes' as cold as the spring at home whur granny keeps 'er milk 'n' butter. W'en I—"