A moment more, and we stood in the wood road, and presently we came upon a spring under a rock, and plunged our faces into it and drank. She looked up with the water dripping from her saucy nose, and quoted: "'As rivers of water in a dry place.' I'm learning lots to-day. Now it's the elemental force of the Bible similes." "All the wisdom isn't in New York--and dictionaries," said I. "There, now you've mentioned the Dictionary! How could you!" she cried, and suddenly, like a child, snapped water into my face. "You've ruined my collar," said I solemnly. "Your collar looks like a fat man's at a dance in July," said she. "Let's give the poor trilliums a drink." She put the basket by the spring, dipped her hands in the water, and then let palmsful drop on the wilted flowers. "How woodsy they smell!" she cried, leaning over them. "Now I'm going to wash my face again." She was like a child. She buried her face in the water, and when she emerged the little curly hairs on her temples were dripping. "I'd like to wade in it!" she exclaimed. "I wonder if I dare!" "Go ahead," said I. "I'll go down the road and wait." "That wouldn't be daring," she twinkled. "Well, I'll sit here and wait." She looked at me saucily, and laughed, shaking her head. "Coward," said I. But she only laughed again, sprang up, and started rapidly away. I caught her by the arm. "Easy, easy," I cautioned. "You're a broken-down, nervous wreck, remember. You mustn't overdo things." Her moods were many that afternoon. Again she looked at me, but didn't laugh. Her eyes, instead, held a sort of startled gratitude, like those of a person, unused to kindness, suddenly befriended. She was no longer the child let loose in the woods. She walked slowly at my side, and so we came down to the high-road again. At the road we looked back to the hilltop where we had been. "How much easier the climb looks than it is," said she. "That's the way of hills--and other things," said I sententiously. "I knew about the other things," she answered. "Now I've learned it about the hills. It seems as if I were learning all the old similes wrong end foremost, doesn't it?--springs and--and all?" Her tone was wistful, and it was with difficulty that I refrained from touching her hand. "Oh, there's something to be said for that method," I answered cheerfully. "Think of all the pleasant things you have to learn. The other way around you get the grim realism last." But a thought plagued her as we turned down the side road to my house. However, her face cleared as we drew near, and as the house itself appeared she clapped her hands, crying, "Now, where are we going to put the trilliums?" "At the edge of the pines," I suggested, "where they can talk with the brook?" "Yes, that's the place." Suddenly she paused, looked back up the slope, and cried, "Do you suppose this brook is that spring?"