The moss is thick and soft in there, and there are
little pools lying calm and dark, and there is a kind of a _hush_ in
the air--not silence, you know, but like when a big crowd of people are
keeping still. And then we would walk very carefully, and speak low,
and we would sit by the side of a fallen log and wait. After a while
the thrush would sing, a deep note, with a thrill in it, like a bell
slow and solemn. When you hear it you too feel a thrill as though you
had heard a great and noble thought. Why, it is almost _holy_!"
He turned to the girl. She was looking at him.
"Why, hullo!" he exclaimed, "what's the matter?"
Her eyes were brimming with tears.
"Nothing," she said. "I never heard a man talk as you have been
talking, that is all. The rest of them are cynical and hard and cold.
They would be ashamed to say the things you have said. No, no!" she
cried, laying her hand on his arm as he made a little uneasy movement,
"do not misunderstand me. I like it. I love it. It does me good. I had
lost faith. It is not nice to know the other kind--well."
"You speak bitterly," he expostulated.
She laughed.
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