"Come along then," she answered; "we must not lose a moment."

They caught butterflies; they picked flowers; they ran; they lingered
by the wayside; they sang; they climbed, and he marvelled at her easy
speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight
her--the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fragrance
of the pine woods.

"Is it not good to live?" she cried. "Is it not splendid to take in the
scented air? Draw in as many long breaths as you can. Isn't it good?
Don't you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do.
What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she pets us, and gives us the best
of her treasures!"

Her happiness invaded Oswald Everard's soul, and he felt like a
school-boy once more, rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty, with
nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the
freedom of the moment.

"Is it not good to live?" he cried. "Yes, indeed it is, if we know how
to enjoy."

They had come upon some haymakers, and the little girl hastened up to
help them, laughing and talking to the women, and helping them to pile
up the hay on the shoulders of a broad-backed man, who then conveyed his
burden to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald Everard watched his companion for
a moment, and then, quite forgetting his dignity as an amateur tenor
singer, he too lent his aid, and did not leave off until his companion
sank exhausted on the ground.