The Finding of Jasper Holt by Grace Livingston Hill

He helped her over rough places and up the steep climbs. Hand in hand they ran down the slopes like two children out for play; their merry laughter ringing out, forgetful of the recent dangers through which they had passed; forgetful, too, of perilous possibilities before them. It was enough that the day was fresh, the sun was shining, their strength renewed, and they were together. Each was occupied most with the fact of the other and the day.

They ate their berries before the heat of the noon was fully come, and hurried on. But Holt could see that his companion was growing weary, for the excitement of the night before had left her shaken, and more and more she faltered and leaned heavily upon him up the hills. Then he found a quiet resting place under some trees and bade her sleep, and while she slept he hovered not far away.

He found a pool where by a skill he had long practised he could catch some very small fish; and with due patience he at last secured enough to make a meal. Then with infinite pains and his knowledge of woodcraft, he accomplished a fire once more and cooked the fish, so that when she awoke there was dinner spread under a tree -- broiled fish, with clear water from the brook to drink.

Holt was in a hurry to get on, for he was growing uneasy about the direction they were taking. It seemed as if they were off the regular line of habitation and travel. Was it possible he had turned too much to the north and was set to enter the desert at the most remote and lonely part, where they might travel for days without meeting anyone?

He changed the direction slightly and they started on again, the young man watching the sun anxiously from time to time. And now he kept the girl's arm, touching her elbow lightly to be ready with help when it was needed. Often he drew her arm within his own and fairly lifted her over hard places; and so they came to higher ground and looked out before them once more. The sun was lower now, and growing redder as it went down with premonition of the night. The man could see that the girl's steps were slower, and that her face was pale with weariness, though she said not a word and plodded cheerfully on by his side. He could see that she looked anxiously about on all sides whenever they came to the higher ground, and knew that she was thinking all this time of her mother.

The fair, weary face and bright, determined countenance touched his heart deeply, and brought out all the latent tenderness in his nature; and there arose in him a great longing to help her that made him wonder at himself.

At last as they reached another slight elevation he looked to the west and to his relief saw a small house with horses and cattle moving about in the fields. He showed it to her and her eyes lighted with joy.

"Oh, that is so good! I was worried, for I know I'm a burden. You would have gone the distance twice if you had been alone."

His hand touched her arm more reverently close. "I am glad I was not alone," he said earnestly. "And I'm glad you were not alone."

She looked up to meet his eyes and there leaped from each to the other a wonderful realization of the beauty of the companionship they had held that day.

"Yes, I am glad I was not alone," she said with deep feeling, "for, oh, it would have been dreadful! And this has been -- beautiful," she finished, and wondered at herself for speaking so freely. Then each was suddenly silent at the appalling realization that the free companionship of the day was almost at an end. They were coming to the world of convention and form again, where words and actions were weighed and motives questioned. There had been nothing of that here, for necessity and common peril had blotted them out of existence for the time, and it had been blessed. Now the thought came simultaneously to both. Would they ever see one another again and be friends?

The way wound down into a ravine, and the heavy growth of trees shadowed the path. It was rough and he guided her tenderly, respectfully, as one might guide a little child one loved. She felt his care in every step she took, and her heart responded gratefully to his gentleness. Her own father could not have been more thoughtful; and there was nothing familiar or presuming in his touch. He might have been a mother, the tenderness he showed. Perhaps Jean felt it more because she was so very tired, and realized her lonely position now that night was coming on again.

In the valley they came to the bank of a stream, deep and turbulent; and standing upon its brink, looking either way, there seemed no possible ford. How deep it was they could not guess, but there was plainly a strong current.

Holt stood a moment, surveying the barrier to their progress, walked a few steps up the bank and down, and looked up at the westering sky. Then he deliberately walked out into the stream.

The girl on the bank caught her breath but said nothing. Must they swim across? Was there no other way? She watched Holt standing, strong and manly, in the middle of the stream, the water above his waist. Presently, when he had gone more than half way across he turned and came back to her.

She was white with excitement, but her lips were set and her eyes were bright with the intention of doing his bidding.

"I am sorry. There is no other way, and we must hurry, for the sun is getting low. We should reach that house before dark."

He stooped and gathered her in his strong arms, lifting her shoulder high, and stalked out into the stream before she knew what he was doing.

"Oh, please, I can walk as well as you," she deprecated.

"Put your arms around my neck, please," he commanded, and waded in, holding her high and dry above the water.