In fact, I dare not; she is in too complicated a mood. And,
after all, why should I want her to marry either of them? Why should the
"hungry generations" tread her down? She is nice enough to stay as she is.
Another thing happened on our way here which may perversely have helped to
confirm her in this pretty notion of Harshaw's disinterestedness.
At a place by the river where the current is bad (there are many such
places, and, in fact, the whole of the Snake River is a perfect hoodoo)
Harshaw stopped one day to drink. The wagon had struck a streak of heavy
sand, and we were all walking. We stood and watched him, because he drank
with such deep enjoyment, stooping bareheaded on his hands and knees, and
putting his hot face to the water. Suddenly he made a clutch at his breast
pocket: his Norfolk jacket was unbuttoned. He had lost something, and the
river had got it. He ran along the bank, trying to recover it with a stick,
and, not succeeding, he plopped in just as he was, with his boots on. We
saw him drop into deep water and swim for it, a little black object, which
he caught, and held in his teeth. Then he turned his face to the shore; and
precious near he came to never reaching it! We women had been looking on,
smiling, like idiot dolls, till we saw Tom racing down the bank, throwing
off his coat as he ran.
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