And yet not a talk at all; a play,
rather, in which words count for little and the action is
everything: Listening to the toss of a curl or the lowering of an
eyelid; answering with a lift of the hand--such a strong brown
hand, that could pull an oar, perhaps, or help her over dangerous
places! Then her white teeth, and the way the head bent; and then
his ears and how close they lay to his head; and the short, glossy
hair with the faintest bit of a curl in it. And then the sudden
awakening: Oh, yes--it was the sugar Mr. Breen wanted, of course.
What was I thinking of?
And so the game went on, neither of them caring where the ball
went so that it could be hit again when it came their way.
When it was about to stay its flight I ventured in with the remark
that she must not forget to give my kindest and best to her good
father. I think she had forgotten I was standing so near.
"And you know daddy!" she cried--the real girl was shining in her
eyes now--all the coquetry had vanished from her face.
"Yes--we worked together on the piers of the big bridge over the
Delaware; oh, long ago.
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