elt upon the moss, and touched me impersonally, like the spirit that
she seemed.

"You are very wet!" I cried. "The water is cold. I know these
mountain brooks. You will be chilled through. Pray get home and send
me--somebody."

"Where are you hurt?" she answered, with a little authoritative wave of
the hand, as if she waved my words away. She had firm, fine hands.

"I have injured the patella--I mean the knee-pan," I replied. She
smiled indulgently. She did not take the trouble to tell me that my
lesson in elementary anatomy was at all superfluous. But when I saw
her smile I said:--

"That was unconscious cerebration."

"Why, of course," she answered, nodding pleasantly.

"Go home," I urged. "Go and get yourself out of these wet things. No
lady can bear it; it will injure you." She lifted her head,--I thought
she carried it like a Greek,--and regarded me with her wide, grave
eyes. I met hers firmly, and for a moment we considered each other.

"It is plain that you are a doctor," she said lightly, with a second
smile. "I presume you never see a well woman; at least--believe you
see one now. I shall mind this wetting no more than if I were a trout
or a gray squirrel. I am perfectly able to give you whatever help you
require. And by your leave, I shall not go home and get into a dry
dress until I see you properly cared for. Now! Can you step? Or
shall I get a waggon, and a farm-hand? I think we could back a horse
down almost to this spot. But it would take time. So?--Will you try
it? Gently. Slowly. Don't _let_ me hurt you, or blunder. I see that
you are in great pain. Don't be afraid to lean on me. I am quite
strong. I am able. If you can crawl a few steps"--

_Steps_! I would have crawled a few miles. For she put her sweet arms
about me as simply and nobly as if I had been a wounded child; and with
such strength of the flesh and unconsciousness of the spirit as I had
never beheld in any woman, she did indeed support me out of the forest
in such wise that my poor pain of the body became a great and glorified
fact, for the joy of soul that I had because of her.

It had begun to be easy, in my day, to make a mock at many dear and
delicate beliefs; not those alone which pertain to the life eternal,
but those belonging to the life below. The one followed from the
other, perhaps. That which we have been accustomed to call love was an
angel whose wings had been bruised by our unbelie