"Why not?" he asked.

"I should have liked it when you wrote it, but now the spring has
come, and we must be happy. You have heard the springtime song."

"Yes," said Arthur, "and the streamlet has led me to the beautiful
sight."

"It _is_ beautiful," said Helen, gazing about her with that naive
unconsciousness which "every wise man's son doth know" is one thing
he may never trust in a woman. "It could not be more beautiful," she
added, "and you must write me something about it, instead of
wandering around our pasture-pond on winter nights till your
imagination turns it into a frozen lake."

The young poet put away his papers rather suddenly at that, and
Helen, after gazing at him for a moment, and laughing to herself,
sprang up from the seat.

"Come!" she cried, "why are we sitting here, anyway, talking about
all sorts of things, and forgetting the springtime altogether? I
haven't been half as happy yet as I mean to be."

She seemed to have forgotten her friend's twelve mile walk; but he
had forgotten it too, just as he soon forgot the rather wintry
reception of his little song. It was not possible for him to remain
dull very long in the presence of the girl's glowing energy; for
once upon her feet, Helen's dancing mood seemed to come back to her,
if indeed it had ever more than half left her. The brooklet struck