"Good morning, Shepherd. Is it true that in April the country north of the hills is filled with lakes?" "Yes, sometimes, Mistress Thea," said Young Gerard. She looked at him with surprise and said, "You must be one of my father's shepherds, but I do not remember seeing you at Combe Ivy." "I was only once near Combe Ivy," said Young Gerard, "when I took you there five years ago the night you were lost on these hills." "Oh, I remember," she said with a faint smile. "How they did scold me. Is your cherry-tree in flower yet, Shepherd?" "No, mistress," said Young Gerard. "I want to see it," she said suddenly. Young Gerard left his flock to the dog, and walked with her along the hillbrow. "I have run away," she told him as they went. "I had to get up very early while they were asleep. I shall be scolded again. But travelers come who talk of the lakes, and I wanted to see them, and to swim in them." "I wouldn't do that," said Young Gerard, hiding a smile. "It's dangerous to swim in the April floods. And it would be rather cold." "What lies beyond?" she asked. "I'm not able to know," said Young Gerard. "Some day I mean to know, shepherd." "Yes, mistress," he said, "you'll be free to." She looked at him quickly and reddened a little, it might have been from shame or pity, Young Gerard did not know which. And her shyness once more enveloped her; it always came over her unexpectedly, taking her breath away like a breaking wave. So she said no more, and they walked together, she looking at the ground, he at the soft brown hair blowing over the curve of her young cheek. She was fine and delicate in every line, and in her color, and in the touch of her too, Young Gerard knew. He wanted to touch her cheek with his finger as he would have touched the petal of a flower. Her neck, the back of it especially, was one of the loveliest bits of her, like a primrose stalk. He fell a step behind so that he could look at it. They did not speak as they went. He did not want to, and she did not know what to say. When they reached the shed she lingered a moment by the tree, tracing a bare branch with her finger, and he waited, content, till she should speak or act, to watch her. At last she said with her faint smile, "I am very thirsty." Then he went into the shed and came out with his wooden cup filled with milk. She drank and said, "Thank you, shepherd. How pretty the violets are in your copse." "Would you like some?" he asked. "Not now," she said. "Perhaps another day. I must go now." She gave him back his cup and went away, slowly at first, but when she was at some distance he saw her begin to run like a fawn.