“Are you tired?  Shall we go back?” he asked.

“No—­I like it,” she returned, slowly, as if the thought were strange to her.

They fished on, and presently came to a wide, shallow place with smooth rock bottom, where the trail crossed.  Neale waded across alone.  And he judged that the water in the middle might come up to Allie’s knees.

“Come on,” he called.

Allie hesitated.  She gathered up her faded skirt, slowly waded in and halted, uncertain of her footing.  She was not afraid, Neale decided, and neither did she seem aware that her slender, shapely legs gleamed white against the dark water.

“Won’t you come and carry me?” she asked.

“Indeed I won’t,” replied Neale.  “Carry a big girl like you!”

She took him seriously and moved a little farther.  “My feet slip so,” she said.

It became fascinating to watch her.  The fun of it—­the pleasure of seeing a girl wade a brook, innocently immodest, suddenly ceased for Neale.  There was something else.  He had only meant to tease; he was going to carry her; he started back.  And then he halted.  There was a strange earnestness in Allie’s face—­a deliberateness in her intent, out of all proportion to the exigency of the moment.  It was as if she must cross that brook.  But she kept halting.  “Come on!” Neale called.  And she moved again.  Every time this happened she seemed to be compelled to go on.  When she got into the swift water, nearly to her knees, then she might well have faltered.  Yet she did not falter.  All at once Neale discovered that she was weak.  She did not have the strength to come on.  It was that which made her slip and halt.  What then made her try so bravely?  How strange that she tried at all!  Stranger than all was her peculiar attitude toward the task —­earnest, sober, grave, forced.

Neale was suddenly seized with surprise and remorse.  That which actuated this girl Allie was merely the sound of his voice—­the answer to his demand.  He plunged in and reached her just as she was slipping.  He carried her back to the side from which she had started.  It cost him an effort not to hold her close.  Whatever she was—­orphan or waif, left alone in the world by a murdering band of Sioux—­an unfortunate girl to be cared for, succored, pitied—­none of these considerations accounted for the change that his power over her had wrought in him.

“You’re not strong,” he said, as he put her down.

“Was that it?” she asked, with just a touch of wonder.  “I used to wade—­anywhere.”

He spoke little on the way back up the brook, for he hesitated to tell her that he must return to his camp so as to be ready for important work on the morrow, and not until they were almost at the cabin did he make up his mind.  She received the intelligence in silence, and upon reaching the cabin she went to her room.

Neale helped Larry and Slingerland with the task of preparing a meal that all looked forward to having Allie share with them.  However, when Slingerland called her there was no response.