Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last he saw her—the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A little shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was explicable about it was something associated with regret.
Joe Lake whistled and stared.
“I haven't met her,” he muttered.
“That's the Sago Lily,” said Withers.
“Reckon I'm going to carry that bucket,” went on Joe.
“And queer yourself with all the other women who've been to the spring? Don't do it, Joe,” advised the trader.
“But her bucket's bigger,” protested Joe, weakly.
“That's true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she'd come first, all right. As she didn't—why, don't single her out.”
Joe kept his seat. The girl came to the spring. A low “good morning” came from under the hood. Then she filled her bucket and started home. Shefford observed that this time she wore moccasins and she carried the heavy bucket with ease. When she disappeared he had again the vague, inexplicable sensation of regret.
Joe Lake breathed heavily. “Reckon I've got to get me a woman like her,” he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appeared thoughtful.