“It wasn’t your Dickens who said it, but you can, perhaps, tell me who did write a verse that has been running in my unpoetical brain ever since I entered your fairy bower,” he said by and by. “The orchard’s all a-flutter with pink; Robins’ twitter, and wild bees’ humming Break the song with a thrill to think How sweet is life when summer is coming. “That is the way it goes, I believe. It is a miracle for me to recollect so much rhyme. The robins and bees must have helped me out.” “I wish I knew who did that!” sighed Hester. “Oh! what it must be to write poetry or paint pictures!” March’s glance of mirthful suspicion changed at sight of the knotted brow and wistful eyes. “One ought to be thankful for either gift,” he said quietly. “I was thinking just now how I should like to make a picture of what I saw as I ran up the hill. May I try some day?” Hetty drew herself up and looked inquiry. Hester’s hands fluttered, painful scarlet throbbed into her cheeks. “Can you draw? Do you paint? Are you an _artist_?” bringing out the last word in an excited whisper. March was too much touched to trifle with her agitation. “I try to be,” he answered simply, almost reverently. “And would you—may I—would it annoy you—Hetty! ask him. You know what I want!” “My darling!” The cooing, comforting murmur was passing sweet. “Be quiet for one moment, and you can put what you want to say into words.” As the fragile form quivered under her hand, a light seemed to dawn upon her. “You see, Mr. Gilchrist, my niece loves pictures better than anything else and—she never has met a real, live artist before,” the corners of her mouth yielding a little. “She has had a great longing to know how the beautiful things that delight her are made—how they grow into being. Is that it, dear?” Hester nodded, her eyes luminous with tears she strove to drive back. March struck his hands together with boyish glee. “I have it! I will make a study of ‘orchards all a-flutter with pink,’ and you shall see me put in every stroke. May I begin to-morrow? Blossom-time is short. How unspeakably jolly! May we, Miss Alling?” The proposition was so ingenuous, and Hester’s imploring eyes were so eloquent, that the referee turned pale under the heart-wrench demur cost her. “Dear!” she said soothingly, to the invalid, “it would not be right to promise until we have consulted your mother. Mr. Gilchrist is very kind. Indeed”—raising an earnest face whose pallor set him to wondering—“you must believe that we do appreciate your goodness in offering her this great happiness. But—Hester, love, we _must_ ask mamma.”