“Ahem! very much obliged, I am sure.  I—­er”—­

“The lady has thanked me,” interrupted Bray, with a smile.

“Did you fall far?” said the younger man to Eugenia, ignoring Bray.

“Not far,” she answered, with a half appealing look at Bray.

“Only a few feet,” added the latter, with prompt mendacity, “just a little slip down.”

The three new-comers here turned away, and, surrounding Eugenia, conversed in an undertone.  Quite conscious that he was the subject of discussion, Bray lingered only in the hope of catching a parting glance from Eugenia.  The words “You do it,” “No, you!” “It would come better from her,” were distinctly audible to him.  To his surprise, however, she suddenly broke through them, and advancing to him, with a dangerous brightness in her beautiful eyes, held out her slim hand.  “My father, Mr. Neworth, my brother, Harry Neworth, and my aunt, Mrs. Dobbs,” she said, indicating each one with a graceful inclination of her handsome head, “all think I ought to give you something and send you away.  I believe that is the way they put it.  I think differently!  I come to ask you to let me once more thank you for your good service to me to-day—­which I shall never forget.”  When he had returned her firm handclasp for a minute, she coolly rejoined the discomfited group.

“She’s no sardine,” said Bray to himself emphatically, “but I suspect she’ll catch it from her folks for this.  I ought to have gone away at once, like a gentleman, hang it!”

He was even angrily debating with himself whether he ought not to follow her to protect her from her gesticulating relations as they all trailed up the hill with her, when he reflected that it would only make matters worse.  And with it came the dreadful reflection that as yet he had not carried the water to his expecting and thirsty comrades.  He had forgotten them for these lazy, snobbish, purse-proud San Franciscans—­for Bray had the miner’s supreme contempt for the moneyed trading classes.  What would the boys think of him!  He flung himself over the bank, and hastened recklessly down the trail to the spring.  But here again he lingered—­the place had become suddenly hallowed.  How deserted it looked without her!  He gazed eagerly around on the ledge for any trace that she had left—­a bow, a bit of ribbon, or even a hairpin that had fallen from her.

As the young man slowly filled the pail he caught sight of his own reflection in the spring.  It certainly was not that of an Adonis!  He laughed honestly; his sense of humor had saved him from many an extravagance, and mitigated many a disappointment before this.  Well!  She was a plucky, handsome girl—­even if she was not for him, and he might never set eyes on her again.  Yet it was a hard pull up that trail once more, carrying an insensible pail of water in the hand that had once sustained a lovely girl!  He remembered her reply to his badinage, “Of course not—­if it were only a pail,” and found a dozen pretty interpretations of it.  Yet he was not in love!  No!  He was too poor and too level headed for that!  And he was unaffectedly and materially tired, too, when he reached the road again, and rested, leaving the spring and its little idyl behind.