“Do you know the birds?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not,” he admitted; “I don’t really know much about Nature, but I love it, and I’m going to learn more.  I know only the very common birds, and one other.  Did you ever hear the hermit thrush sing?”

“Never.”

“Oh!” he cried in sudden enthusiasm, “then there is another ‘suppose’ for us, the best of all.”

“I love the dear old house!” she objected doubtfully.

“But the hermit thrush is better.  The old country minister took me to hear him one Sunday afternoon and I shall never forget it.”

She glanced at his animated face through half-closed eyes.

“Tell me,” she urged softly.

“‘Suppose’ we were back East,” he began, “and in the country, just about this time of year.  We would wait until the afternoon—­why! just about this time, when the sun is getting low.  We would push through the bushes at the edge of the woods where the little tinkling birds sing in the fence corners, and would enter the deep high woods where the trees are tall and still.  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.  “It is a common experience enough.  Pray that you may never know it.  I began as a little child, loving and trusting every one, and giving my full free heart and confidence to every one who offered his best to me.  All I can say is, that I am thankful for you that you have escaped the suffering such blind trust leads to.”

She laughed again, bitterly, and threw her arms out.

“I suppose I shall go on trusting people forever.  It’s in my nature, and I can’t help it.”

“I hope you will feel you can trust me,” said he, troubled at this passion so much beyond his experience.  “I would do anything for you.”

“Do! do!” she cried with contempt.  “Yes.  Any number of people will do anything for me.  I want some one to be for me!”