as if to
be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly
to a sitting posture, saying, "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turned sick
immediately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders as he
fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this
she blushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face. Those
standing by were struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to the
daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive face spoke
a wonderful language: a divine gratitude and thankfulness; and her eyes
had a clear moisture which did not dim them. The situation was trying
to the river-drivers--it was too refined; and they breathed more freely
when they got outside and left the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and
the young doctor alone with the injured man.

That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events from
the start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound up
Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his
blood new to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted,
it was too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently
repulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, not
uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was
very young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad's head at
the start. He falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the
medulla oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the heart of a
maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxed
the compass of experience.

He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out of
an unfamiliar life.

"Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high
cross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man--what he
was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down,
eh? Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles the
wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his
hat to death. That's different altogether from us."

He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look.

"Yes," Brydon said, "he is different; and so is she."

"She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow emphasis. "She couldn't hide it
if she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made
for this?"--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. "No,