Here the narrator's blue eyes tried to convey mysterious things to the bridge-rail, over which they were thoughtfully bent. "It is a beautiful story. I'll lend it to you if you like."
"I ain't much of a reader, but I want that book as quick as I can get it. Can I come over to-morrow? I can't hardly take it in at first hearin', but I want to understand everything you do, and think, and feel, Undine. I want—"
There would have been an offer of marriage on the bridge at that moment, had not Jim Thompson approached swiftly and hung over the rail beside them in friendly fashion, confident—being young and artless—of a hearty welcome.
Undine was distinctly grateful for the interruption, for she was not in the least ready to say yes or no to the question of all questions, so she bade Matthew good-night with a smile that almost overthrew his reason, and hastened home to supper.
Meantime Matthew, forgetting the baking-powder, hurried back to his mother, went to the pasture for the cows, milked them, set the milk in the dairy, and then stalking into the kitchen where Mrs. Milliken was scalding the pails and pans, called out,
"Say! Where's the dictionary, mother?"
"On the top shelf of the china closet in the dining-room, where it was when your father died. I guess nobody ever has took it down since."
Matthew found the book, brought it back to a chair under the light, and began to turn the pages. "Gosh!" he ejaculated. "I guess I ain't looked in it sence I left school."
"What word is it you want, Matthew?"
"Water-sprite. Will it be under 'water' or 'sprite,' do you think?"