"Why," I said to her suddenly, "spring has gone! I wonder how that happened. I have been waiting really to get hold of spring, and here it is June." "June-and-a-half," assented the New Lady, and touched the lines so that we came to a standstill in the shade of a cottonwood. "This way," she said--and added softly, as one who would not revive a sadness, her own idea of the matter. "Where did Spring die? I did not hear her go Down the soft lane she painted. All flower still She moved among her emblems on the hill Touching away their burden of old snow. Was it on some great down where long winds flow That the wild spirit of Spring went out to fill The eyes of Summer? Did a daffodil Lift the pale urn remote where she lies low? "Oh, not as other moments did she die, That woman-season, outlined like a rose. Before the banner of Autumn's scarlet bough The Summer fell; and Winter, with a cry, Wed with March wind. Spring did not die like those; But vaguely, as if Love had prompted, 'Now.'" The New Lady's theory does not agree with that of Little Child. I am in doubt which to accept. But I like to think about both. And when the New Lady had said the faint requiem, we drove on again and the next moment had almost run down Nicholas Moor, lying face downward in the lush grass. I recognized him at once, but of course the New Lady did not do so, and she leaned from the cart, thoroughly alarmed at the boy's posture and, as he looked up, at his pallor. "Oh, what is the matter?" she cried, and her voice was so heavenly pitying that one would have been willing to have most things the matter only to hear her. Nicholas Moor scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and stood abashed, looking as strangely detached from the moment as if he had fallen from a frame and left the rest of the picture behind. "Nothing. I just like to be here," he was surprised into saying. The New Lady sat down and smiled. And her smile was even more captivating than had been her late alarm. "So do I," she told him heartily. "So do I. What do you like about it, _best_?" I do not think that any one had ever before spoken to Nicholas so simply, and he answered, chord for chord. "I guess--I guess I like it just on account of its being the way it is," he said. "That is a very, very nice reason," the New Lady commented. "Again, so do I." We left him, I remember, looking about as if he were seeing it all for the first time. As we drove away I told my New Lady about Nicholas, and she looked along her own thought and shook her head. "There must be hundreds of them," she said, "and some are poets. But most of them are only lonesome. I wonder which Nicholas is?"