‘Hi! hi!’ called the voice again.  ‘Is any one there?’

Zilda went down the bank halfway among the bushes and looked over.  She saw Gilby sitting at the edge of the meadow almost in the river water.  She saw at once that something was wrong.  His attitude was as natural as he could make it, such an attitude as a proud man might assume when pain is chaining him in an awkward position, but Zilda saw that he was injured.  Her heart gave a great bound of pleasure.  Ah! her bird was wounded in the wing; she had him now, for a time at least.

‘You!  Mam’selle Zilda,’ he said in surprise; ‘how came you here?’

‘I wished to see the broken road, monsieur.’  There was nothing in her voice or manner then or at any other time to indicate that she took a special interest in him.

‘Do you often take such long walks?’ he asked with curiosity.

Zilda shrugged her shoulders.  ‘Sometimes; why not?’

She could not have told why she dissembled; it was instinct, just as it was the instinct of his proud little spirit to hate to own that he was helpless.  ‘Look here,’ he said, ’I slipped on the bank—­and I—­I think I have sprained my ankle.’

‘Oui, monsieur,’ said Zilda.

Her manner evinced no surprise; her stolidity was grateful to him.

Stooping down, she took his foot in her hand, gently, but as firmly as if it had been a horse’s hoof.  She straightened it, unlaced his muddy boot, and with strong hands tore the slit further open until she could take it off.

‘Look here,’ he said, with a little nervous shout of laughter, ’do you not know you are hurting me?’ It was the only wince he gave, although he was faint with pain.

’Oui, monsieur’—­with a smile as firm and gentle as her touch.

She took off her hat, and, heedless of the ribbon upon it, filled it with water again and again and drenched the swollen leg.  It was so great a relief to him that he hardly noticed that she stood ankle-deep in the river to do it.  She wore a little red tartan shawl upon her shoulders, and she dipped this also in the river, binding it round and round the ankle, and tying it tight with her own boot-lace.

‘Thank you,’ said he; ‘you are really very good, Mam’selle Zilda.’

She stood beside him; she was radiantly happy, but she did not show it much.  She had him there very safe; it mattered less to her how to get him away; yet in a minute she said—­

‘Monsieur had better move a little higher up; he is very uncomfortable.’

He knew that much better than she, but he had borne all the pain he could just then.  He nodded as if in dismissal of the idea.  ’Presently.  But, in the meantime, Zilda, sit down and see what a beautiful place this is; you have not looked at it.’

So she found a stone to sit on, and immediately her eyes were opened and she saw the loveliness around her.

The river was not a very broad one, but ah! how blue it was, with a glint of gold on every wave.  The trees that stood upon either bank cast a lacework of shadow upon the carpet of moss and violets beneath them.  The buds of the maples were red.  On a tree near them a couple of male canaries, bright gold in the spring season, were hopping and piping; then startled, they flew off in a straight line over the river to the other shore.