Thryng walked out past the loom shed and paused to look in on the young girl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweep of her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her with steady beat, driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretched before her with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all her lithe body intent and atune. It seemed to him as he sat himself on the step to watch, that music must come from the flow of her action. The noise of the loom prevented her hearing his approach, and silently he watched and waited, fascinated in seeing the fabric grow under her hand. As silently she worked on, and slowly, even as the pattern took shape and became plain before her, his thoughts grew and took definite shape also, until he became filled with a set purpose. He would not disturb her now nor make her look around. It was enough just to watch her in her sweet serious unconsciousness, with the flush of exercise on her cheeks as he could see when she slightly turned her head with every throw of the shuttle. When at last she rose, he saw a look of care and weariness on her face that disturbed him. He sprang up and came to her. She little dreamed how long he had been there. "Please don't go. Stay here and talk to me a moment. Your mother is all right; I have just been with her. May I examine what you have been doing? It is very interesting to me, you know." He made her show him all the manner of her work and drew her on to tell him of the different patterns her mother had learned from her grandmother and had taught her. "They don't do much on the hand-looms now in the mountains, but Miss Mayhew at the hotel last summer--I told you about her--sold some of mother's work up North, and I promised more, but I'm afraid--I don't guess I can get it all done now." "You are tired. Sit here on the step awhile with me and rest. I want to talk to you a little, and I want you alone." She looked hesitatingly toward the declining sun. He took her hand and led her to the door. "Can't you give me a few, a very few moments? You hold me off and won't let me say what I often have in mind to ask you." She sat beside him where he placed her and looked wonderingly into his face, but not in the least as if she feared what his question might be, or as if she suspected anything personal. "You know it's not right that this sort of thing should go on indefinitely?" "I don't know what sort of thing you mean." She lifted grave, wide eyes to his--those clear gray eyes--and his heart admonished him that he had begun to love to look into their blue and green depths, but heed the admonishment he would not.