talking to herself, "the day when we first came to the Bridge House. I
sat down on a box and looked at the furniture--it was so little--and
cried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. I
couldn't help it. He sat down too, and didn't say anything. He was very
pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angry
with myself, and sprang up and went to work--and we get along pretty
well."

She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: "I love the river. I don't
believe I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, and
die on it, and be buried in it."

His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty that his
voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along the
railing to hers, and covered it tenderly--for so big a hand. She drew her
fingers away, but not very quickly. "Don't!" she said, "and--and someone
is coming!"

There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carrying a
board fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stood
speechless with wonder. He had never thought of this. He was a gentleman,
in spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss. Presently he drew
himself up with an air. The heavy board was still in his arms. Brydon
came over and took the board, looking him squarely in the eyes.

"Mr. Rupert," he said, "I want to ask something." The old man nodded.

"I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?" Again the old man
nodded.