Dosia has been ill described if it has not been made evident that to caress, to touch her, seemed the involuntarily natural expression of any feeling toward her. Something in the bright, tendril-curling hair, the curve of her young cheek, the curve of her red lips, her light, yet round form, with its confiding, unconscious movements, made as inevitable an allure as the soft rosiness of a darling child, with always the suggestion of that illusive spirit that dared, and retreated, ever giving, ere it veiled itself, the promise of some lovelier glimpse to come.
The water had stopped running, and Dosia straightened herself. She raised her head, to meet his eyes upon her. What was in them? The color flamed in her face and left her white, although in a second there was nothing more to see in his but a deep and guarded gentleness as he came toward her with the pitcher.
"I'll take it now, please," she said hurriedly.
"Won't you let me carry it up for you?"
"Thank you, it isn't necessary. I'll go along, if you'll wait and turn out the light."
"Very well. You're sure it's not too heavy for you?" he asked anxiously, as her wrists bent a little with the weight.
"Oh, no, indeed," said Dosia quickly, turning to go. At that moment the white cat, jumping down from the table in front of her, rubbed itself against her skirts, and she stumbled slightly.
"Take care!" cried Girard, grasping the shaking pitcher over her slight hold of it.
Their hands touched—for the first time since the night of disaster, the night of her trust and his protection. The next instant there was a crash; the fragments of the jug lay upon the kitchen floor, the water streaming over it in rivulets.
"Dosia!" called the frightened voice of Lois from above.