"I do not know your name, sir," she said, "but I should like my father to thank you some day."
"All ready!" cried the mate.
"My name is Cowles," I began, "and sometime, perhaps—"
"All aboard!" cried the mate; and so the oars gave way.
So I did not get the name of the girl I had seen there in the firelight. What did remain—and that not wholly to my pleasure, so distinct it seemed—was the picture of her high-bred profile, shown in chiaroscuro at the fireside, the line of her chin and neck, the tumbled masses of her hair. These were things I did not care to remember; and I hated myself as a soft-hearted fool, seeing that I did so.
"Son," said old Auberry to me, after a time, as we trudged along up the bank, stumbling over roots and braided grasses, "that was a almighty fine lookin' gal we brung along with us there."
"I didn't notice," said I.
"No," said Auberry, solemnly, "I noticed you didn't take no notice; so you can just take my judgment on it, which I allow is safe. Are you a married man?"
"Not yet," I said.
"You might do a heap worse than that gal," said Auberry.