but after a moment's contemplation of her half-averted face, he asked
gravely, "Has anyone talked to you about me?"

Ten minutes before, Nellie had been burning to unburthen herself of her
father's warning, but now she felt she would not. "I wish you wouldn't
call yourself Low," she said at last.

"But it's my name," he replied quietly.

"Nonsense! It's only a stupid translation of a stupid nickname. They
might as well call you 'Water' at once."

"But you said you liked it."

"Well, so I do. But don't you see--I--oh dear! you don't understand."

Low did not reply, but turned his head with resigned gravity towards the
deeper woods. Grasping the barrel of his rifle with his left hand, he
threw his right arm across his left wrist and leaned slightly upon it
with the habitual ease of a Western hunter--doubly picturesque in his
own lithe, youthful symmetry. Miss Nellie looked at him from under her
eyelids, and then half defiantly raised her head and her dark lashes.
Gradually an almost magical change came over her features; her eyes grew
larger and more and more yearning, until they seemed to draw and absorb
in their liquid depths the figure of the young man before her; her cold
face broke into an ecstasy of light and color; her humid lips parted
in a bright, welcoming smile, until, with an irresistible impulse, she
arose, and throwing back her head stretched towards him two hands full
of vague and trembling passion.