And she had admired him unreservedly when he pulled off his boots and jumped
into the river to save Alcestis Crambry's life, without giving a single
thought to his own.
And was there ever, after all, such a noble, devoted, unselfish fellow, or a
better brother? And would she not despise herself for rejecting him simply
because he was countrified, and because she longed to see the world of the
fashion plates in the magazines?
"The logs are so like people!" she exclaimed as they sat down. "I could name
nearly every one of them for somebody in the village. Look at Mite Shapley,
that dancing little one, slipping over the falls and skimming along the top of
the water, keeping out of all the deep places, and never once touching the
rocks."
Stephen fell into her mood. "There's Squire Anderson coming down crosswise and
bumping everything in reach. You know he's always buying lumber and logs
without knowing what he is going to do with them. They just lie and rot by the
roadside. The boys always say that a toadstool is the old Squire's 'mark' on a
log."
"And that stout, clumsy one is Short Dennett.--What are you doing, Stephen?"
"Only building a fence round this clump of harebells," Stephen replied.
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