touched the roughened braids of dark brown hair, and intensified the glow
of a little ear which showed beneath. She stooped to drink; but Miss
Frances was destined never to taste that virgin cup of water. There was a
trampling among the bushes, overhead; a little shower of dust and pebbles
pattered down upon her bent head, soiling the water. She let her hands fall
as she looked up, with a startled "Oh!" A pair of large boots were rapidly
making their way down the bank, and the cause of all this disturbance stood
before her,--a young man in a canvas jacket, with a leathern case slung
across his shoulder, and a small tin lamp fastened in front of the hat
which he took off while he apologized to the girl for his intrusion.

"Miss Newell! Forgive me for dropping down on you like a thousand of brick!
You've found the spring, I see."

Miss Frances stood with her elbows still pressed to her sides, though her
skirt had slipped down into the water, her wet palms helplessly extended.
"I was getting a drink," she said, searching with the tips of her fingers
among the folds of her dress for a handkerchief. "You came just in time to
remind me of the slip between the cup and the lip."

"I'm very sorry, but there is plenty of water left. I came for some myself.
Let me help you." He took from one of the many pockets stitched into the
breast and sides of his jacket a covered flask, detached the cup, and,
after carefully rinsing, filled and handed it to the girl. "I hope it
doesn't taste of 'store claret;' the water underground is just a shade
worse than that exalted vintage."

"It is delicious, thank you, and it doesn't taste in the least of claret.
Have you just come out of the mine?"