On a pleasant April morning the two were thus driving along the South Cyrus road. Pilot was in the shafts, and in high spirits. The day before had been rainy, and he had not been out; now he sped along the sun-dappled road as if every stride were a pleasure; now and then breaking into a canter of rejoicing, to be checked by Kitty with affectionate firmness. When they had climbed and dipped the intervening hills and the plain stretched before them like a floor, Mr. Chanter leaned back in his seat and rubbed his hands. "This is delightful!" he said. "This is de-lightful, Kitty! ha! the poetry of motion. "'And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing!' A fine horse (and Pilot is a remarkably fine horse!) is after mankind, one of the noblest works of God." "Isn't he?" said Kitty. "And not always such a long way after, do you think, Mr. Chanter? Compare Pilot, or Dan either, with--with some people! that horrid Boody man! Neither Pilot nor Dan would _think_ of cheating in a horse trade!" "Surely not! surely not!" Mr. Chanter acquiesced. "They would scorn such an action." "To be sure, Dan does steal eggs!" Kitty continued meditatively. "But then--that seems a little different, don't you think? A hen is _such_ a goose!" "Surely not! surely not!" said the Reverend Timothy again in sonorous accent. Kitty glanced at him: he was making a series of courteous bows to Pilot's glossy hindquarters; was in fact as nearly asleep as any one could be whose eyes were only half shut. "Dear soul!" murmured Kitty to herself. "He was up half the night with that sick man, Mrs. Chanter said. He might as well take a good nap. Easy now, Pilot! easy, dear boy!" Pilot, who had been dancing a bit in the joy of his heart, settled into a smooth trot, and conveyed to Kitty by a toss of his beautiful head that he could keep this up all day, though it was a trifle dull. "Never mind, darling!" said Kitty. "You shall rush all the way home if you like." She fell into a muse, as the miles sped smoothly by. It was spring; really and truly, or almost really and truly, almost spring. "Really spring, or nearly spring, And, oh, I love you dearly, spring!" she hummed under her breath. Kitty loved to think in rhyme. Sometimes for days together she and Tommy would hardly speak in prose. Tommy was far cleverer, of course: (he was not!) did he talk rhyme now, Kitty wondered, and if so, to whom? Something pricked her; she put the thought resolutely away. "'Tis a month before the month of May, And the spring comes slowly up this way."