"They aren't human. They don't FEEL! Some day you'll know them. They
won't amuse you then!"

She went on, in a quiet, almost dreamy voice:

"Why do they come here? It's still young and warm and good out here. Why
don't they keep to their Culture, where no one knows what it is to ache
and feel hunger, and hearts don't beat. Feel!"

Disturbed beyond measure, the boy could not tell whether it was in her
heart or in his hand that the blood was pulsing so. Was he glad or sorry
when she let his hand go?

"Ah, well! They can't spoil this day. Let's rest."

At the edge of the larch-wood where they sat, were growing numbers
of little mountain pinks, with fringed edges and the sweetest scent
imaginable; and she got up presently to gather them. But he stayed where
he was, and odd sensations stirred in him. The blue of the sky, the
feathery green of the larch-trees, the mountains, were no longer to him
what they had been early that morning.

She came back with her hands full of the little pinks, spread her
fingers and let them drop. They showered all over his face and neck.
Never was so wonderful a scent; never such a strange feeling as they
gave him. They clung to his hair, his forehead, his eyes, one even got
caught on the curve of his lips; and he stared up at her through their
fringed petals. There must have been something wild in his eyes then,
something of the feeling that was stinging his heart, for her smile