She found him seated on the near bank, close beside her hazel-mote.

He did not hear her barefooted approach, being absorbed in the movements of a wagtail that had come down to the pebbly spit for its bath; and Tilda started scolding forthwith.

For he sat there naked to the waist, with his shirt spread to dry on the grass.

He had given it a thorough soaping, and washed it and wrung it out: his stockings too.
"You'll catch yer death!" threatened Tilda.
But he was not shivering--so blandly fell the sun's rays, and so gently played the breeze.
"I can't make you out," she confessed.

"First when I came on yer--an' that was on'y yestiddy--you was like a thing afraid o' yer own shadder.
An' now you don't appear to mind nothin'-- not even the chance o' bein' found an' took back." The boy drew a long breath.
"You're shakin' with cold, though.