birds sang how it was spring-time. The fever of the spring was in Peter's
blood, flowing through his veins like fire, and he knew only that life
was good and lovely and was calling to the three of them to come and live
it, to take the April paths together through green woods. The time was
not long past, though it seemed endless years ago, when he would have
liked them to be four, when he would have liked Denis to come too,
because he had so loved Denis that to hurt him and leave him would have
been unthinkable. But the time was past. Peter and Lucy had come to the
place where they couldn't share and didn't want to, and no love but one
matured. They had left civilisation, left friendship, which is part of
civilisation, behind, and knew only the primitive, selfish, human love
that demands all of body and soul. They needed no words to explain to one
another their change of view. For always they had leaped to one another's
thoughts and emotions and desires.

Lucy said wistfully, after a time, "Denis will never see us again."

But thoughts of Denis did not, could not, dim the radiant vision of roads
running merrily through the country of the spring.

Thomas here said that it was milk-time, and Peter, who had thoughtfully
remembered to bring his bottle, produced it from his pocket and applied
it, while Lucy looked on and laughed.

"In future," she said, "I shall take over that job."

"I wonder," murmured Peter, "exactly what we contemplate living on. Shall
we sell boot-laces on the road, or play a barrel-organ, or what?"

"Oh, anything that's nice. But I've got a little, you know. Father hadn't