One of these sightly nights Bijah found voice, if not language. They were pacing slowly along, letting Brindle and Molly have it all their own way. It was the full of the moon, the harvest-moon, and all the world lay bathed in silver light. They had been silent for a while, through sheer peace and content in each other; but suddenly Bije broke out with, "I wish't I had a snow-apple!" "Why, how you startled me!" Betsy responded. "Why do you want a snow-apple now, of all times in the world? They won't be ripe for nigh onto two months, Bije." "Do you know what I thought of, first time ever I see you?" the boy went on, with apparent irrelevance. "Well, I thought of a snow-apple then, and thought you looked the most like one of anything in the world." "Well, of all!" said Betsy. "I did! There's nothing else as I know of that's so red and white, and so round, and so--so sweet, Betsy." "Bijah Green, how you do talk!" Betsy cried. "It's time we was gettin' home with these cows." But she did not quicken her pace, and Bije noticed that she did not. "Do you know what I'd do if you were a snow, Betsy?" Bije came a little nearer, and his voice grew husky. "Eat me, presume likely!" said Betsy, with a little laugh that trembled as if it were full of tears. "No!" cried the boy. "I'd pick you off the tree, though, and have you for my own, Betsy. I'd carry you off, and run away with you, sure's the world. Should--should you mind much, Betsy?" But for once Betsy had nothing to say. She could only hang her head, and look more and more like the snow-apple, as Bije's arm stole round her, and his hand clasped hers. Little Betsy! She was only eighteen; four years older, it is true, than that creature of fire and perfume over in the other Verona, but still almost a child, according to New England ideas. The moon looked down, and probably thought she had seen the same sort of thing ever since she was an asteroid, and these children were like all the rest. But what a mistaken old moon she was,--for there had never been any one like Betsy, and certainly no one like Bijah, since the world began; and it was all perfectly new and strange, and--and--they had a very pleasant walk home. * * * * * "A bird of the air shall carry the matter!" What bird of all that fly could have had so bad a heart as to tell Miss Resigned Elizabeth of what was going on? Did a raven come on heavy-flapping wings, and croak it in her ear? Or was it a magpie, or a chattering jay? Surely no respectable robin or oriole would think of such a thing! But, however the news reached her, it was there, and the golden time was rudely broken in upon.