t that, and
say, in any eyes but her own. For in Esther's eyes every insignificant
growth of the woods or the fields had a value and a charm
inexpressible. Nothing was 'common' to her, and hardly anything that
grew was relegated to the despised community of 'weeds.'

'What are you going for now, Christopher?' she asked as they trudged on
together.

'Well, miss, my old woman there has sent me for some greens. She has a
wild tooth for greens, she has,' he added, half to himself.

'What sort of greens can you get?'

'There's various sorts to be had, Miss Esther; a great variety of the
herbs of the field are good for eating, at the different times o' the
year; even here in this country; and I do suppose there ain't a poorer
on the face o' the earth!'

'Than _this_ country? than Seaforth? O Christopher!'

'Well, m'm, it beats all _I_ ever knew for poorness. You should see
England once, Miss Esther! That's the place for gardens; and the fields
is allays green; and the flowers do be beautiful; and when the sun
_shines_, it shines; here it burns.'

'Not to-day,' said Esther gleefully. 'How nice it is!'

She might say so, for if the spring is rough in New England, and there
is no denying it, there do nevertheless come days of bewitching,
entrancing, delicious beauty, in the midst of the rest. Days when the
air and sky and sunlight are in a kind of poise of delight, and earth
beneath them, is, as it were, still with pleasure. I suppose the spring
may be more glorious in other lands,--more positively glorious; whether
relatively, I do not know. With such contrasts before and behind
them,--contrasts of raw, chill air, and rough, cutting winds, with
skies of grey and gloom,--one of these perfect days of a lost Paradise
stands in a singular setting. It was such a day when Esther and
Christopher went after dandelions. Still, balmy air, a tender sky
slightly veiled with spring mistiness, light and warmth so gentle that
they were a blessing to a weary brain, yet so abundant that every bud
and leaf and plant and flower was unfolding and out-springing and
stretching upward and dispensing abroad all it had of sweetness. The
air was filled with sweetness; not the heavy odours of the blossoms of
summer, or the South, but a more delicate and searching fragrance from
resinous buds and freshly-opened tree flowers and the young green of
the shooting leaf. I don't know where spring gets it all, but she does
fling abroad her handfuls of