spring. mistawis black and sullen for a week or two, then flaming in sapphire and turquoise, lilac and rose again, laughing through the oriel, caressing its amethyst islands, rippling under winds soft as silk. frogs, little green wizards of swamp and pool, singing everywhere in the long twilights and long into the nights; islands fairy-like in a green haze; the evanescent beauty of wild young trees in early leaf; frost-like loveliness of the new foliage of juniper-trees; the woods putting on a fashion of spring flowers, dainty, spiritual things akin to the soul of the wilderness; red mist on the maples; willows decked out with glossy silver pussies; all the forgotten violets of mistawis blooming again; lure of april moons.

“think how many thousands of springs have been here on mistawis—and all of them beautiful,” said valancy. “oh, barney, look at that wild plum! i will—i must quote from john foster. there’s a passage in one of his books—i’ve re-read it a hundred times. he must have written it before a tree just like that:

“‘behold the young wild plum-tree which has adorned herself after immemorial fashion in a wedding-veil of fine lace. the fingers of wood pixies must have woven it, for nothing like it ever came from an earthly loom. i vow the tree is conscious of its loveliness. it is bridling before our very eyes—as if its beauty were not the most ephemeral thing in the woods, as it is the rarest and most exceeding, for today it is and tomorrow it is not. every south wind purring through the boughs will winnow away a shower of slender petals. but what matter? today it is queen of the wild places and it is always today in the woods.’”

“i’m sure you feel much better since you’ve got that out of your system,” said barney heartlessly.

“here’s a patch of dandelions,” said valancy, unsubdued. “dandelions shouldn’t grow in the woods, though. they haven’t any sense of the fitness of things at all. they are too cheerful and self-satisfied. they haven’t any of the mystery and reserve of the real wood-flowers.”

“in short, they’ve no secrets,” said barney. “but wait a bit. the woods will have their own way even with those obvious dandelions. in a little while all that obtrusive yellowness and complacency will be gone and we’ll find here misty, phantom-like globes hovering over those long grasses in full harmony with the traditions of the forest.”

“that sounds john fosterish,” teased valancy.

“what have i done that deserved a slam like that?” complained barney.

one of the earliest signs of spring was the renaissance of lady jane. barney put her on roads that no other car would look at, and they went through deerwood in mud to the axles. they passed several stirlings, who groaned and reflected that now spring was come they would encounter that shameless pair everywhere. valancy, prowling about deerwood shops, met uncle benjamin on the street; but he did not realise until he had gone two blocks further on that the girl in the scarlet-collared blanket coat, with cheeks reddened in the sharp april air and the fringe of black hair over laughing, slanted eyes, was valancy. when he did realise it, uncle benjamin was indignant. what business had valancy to look like—like—like a young girl? the way of the transgressor was hard. had to be. scriptural and proper. yet valancy’s path couldn’t be hard. she wouldn’t look like that if it were. there was something wrong. it was almost enough to make a man turn modernist.

barney and valancy clanged on to the port, so that it was dark when they went through deerwood again. at her old home valancy, seized with a sudden impulse, got out, opened the little gate and tiptoed around to the sitting-room window. there sat her mother and cousin stickles drearily, grimly knitting. baffling and inhuman as ever. if they had looked the least bit lonesome valancy would have gone in. but they did not. valancy would not disturb them for worlds.