oned
myself to the physical pang, got back somehow against the hickory, and
closed my eyes; devoid even of curiosity as to the consequences of the
accident; only "attentive to my sensations," as a great writer of my
day put it. I had often quoted him to nervous people whom I considered
as exaggerating their sufferings; I did not recall the quotation at
that moment.

"Oh! you are hurt!" a low voice said.

I was a bit fastidious in voices at that time of my life. To say that
this was the sweetest I had ever heard would not express what I mean.
It was the _dearest_ I had ever heard. From that first moment,--before
I saw her face,--drowned as I was in that wave of mean physical agony,
given over utterly to myself, I knew, and to myself I said: "It is the
dearest voice in all this world."

A woman on the further side of the trout-brook stood uncertain,
pitifully regarding me. She was not a girl,--quite a woman; ripe, and
self-possessed in bearing. She had a beautiful head, and bright dark
hair; her head was bare, and her straw mountain-hat hung across one arm
by the strings. She had been bathing her face in the water, which was
of a pink tint like the wing above it. As she stood there, she seemed
to be shut in and guarded by, dripping with, that rose-colour,--to
inhale it, to exhale it, to be a part of it, to be _it_. She looked
like a blossom of the live and wonderful evening.

"You are seriously hurt," she repeated. "I must get to you. Have
patience; I will find a way. I will help you."

The bridge was at some distance from us, and the little stream was
brawling and strong.

"But it is not deep," she said. "Do not feel any concern. It will do
me no harm." As she spoke, she swung herself lightly over into the
brook, stepping from stone to stone, till these came to an abrupt end
in the current. There for an instant poised, but one could not say
uncertain, she hung shining before me--for her dress was white, and it
took and took and took the rose-colour as if she were a white rose,
blushing. She then plunged directly into the water, which was
knee-deep at least, and waded straight across to me.

As she climbed the bank, her thick wet dress clinging to her lovely
limbs, and her hands outstretched as if in hurrying pity, I closed my
eyes again before her. I thought, as I did so, how much exquisite
pleasure was like perfect pain.

She climbed the bank and stooped from her tall height to look at me;
kn