"This is a wild and beautiful country," said he, "but it lacks something. I think it is the soul. The little wood lots of the East have so much of it." He paused in surprise at his own thoughts. His only experiences in the woods East had been when out picnicking, or berrying, and he had never noticed these things. "I don't know as I ever thought of it there," he went on slowly, as though trying to be honest with her, "but here it comes to me somehow or another." A little fly-catcher shot up from the frond below, poised a moment, and dropped back with closed wings. "Do you know the birds?" she asked. "I'm afraid not," he admitted; "I don't really _know_ much about Nature, but I love it, and I'm going to learn more. I know only the very common birds, and one other. Did you ever hear the hermit thrush sing?" "Never." "Oh!" he cried in sudden enthusiasm, "then there is another 'suppose' for us, the best of all." "I love the dear old house!" she objected doubtfully. "But the hermit thrush is better. The old country minister took me to hear him one Sunday afternoon and I shall never forget it." She glanced at his animated face through half-closed eyes. "Tell me," she urged softly. "'Suppose' we were back East," he began, "and in the country, just about this time of year. We would wait until the afternoon--why! just about this time, when the sun is getting low. We would push through the bushes at the edge of the woods where the little tinkling birds sing in the fence corners, and would enter the deep high woods where the trees are tall and still. The moss is thick and soft in there, and there are little pools lying calm and dark, and there is a kind of a _hush_ in the air--not silence, you know, but like when a big crowd of people are keeping still. And then we would walk very carefully, and speak low, and we would sit by the side of a fallen log and wait. After a while the thrush would sing, a deep note, with a thrill in it, like a bell slow and solemn. When you hear it you too feel a thrill as though you had heard a great and noble thought. Why, it is almost _holy_!" He turned to the girl. She was looking at him. "Why, hullo!" he exclaimed, "what's the matter?" Her eyes were brimming with tears. "Nothing," she said. "I never heard a man talk as you have been talking, that is all. The rest of them are cynical and hard and cold. They would be ashamed to say the things you have said. No, no!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm as he made a little uneasy movement, "do not misunderstand me. I like it. I love it. It does me good. I had lost faith. It is not nice to know the other kind--well." "You speak bitterly," he expostulated.