to you," he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. "You don't care
for things so rough, mebbe?"

"I love the river," she said quietly.

"We're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It's a rowdy
business."

"I never noticed that," she replied, gravely smiling. "When I was small I
used to go to the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and they were
always kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; but I
didn't think then that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They were never
rough with us."

"No one'd ever be rough with you," was the reply. "Oh yes," she said
suddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the young
doctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had acted:
upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as young
egoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom much
older: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, but with
his reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. "Oh yes," she repeated,
and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart body; and
then she leaned over the railing and looked into the water.

"I'd break the man into pieces that was rough with you," he said between
his teeth.

"Would you?" she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance to
reply, "We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with the
poor--and proud. I remember," she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if