Her natural spirits and buoyant nature, repressed so long, began to reassert themselves, and soon burst forth in gladness.  The change was slow, but sure, and by the time the spring days came and it was possible to get out into the open air, the color had come back to the pale face and the light to the dimmed eyes.  She was like a flower transplanted from some dark corner into an open, sunny spot in a garden.  But that which, more than all else, tended to develop within her graces still unfolded, was her constant contact with Steven.  A subtle sympathy had been established between them from their very first meeting and they gradually became almost inseparable comrades.  Their common love of outdoor life took them on long walks into the woods, from which they came burdened with the first blossoms of the springtime, or they would return from the river, laden with fish, for Steven insisted upon making Pepeeta his companion in every excursion; nor was it hard to persuade her to join him, she was so naturally a creature of the open air and sunlight.

Among the many happy days thus passed, one was especially memorable.  Steven had told her much of a famous fishing place in the big Miami, several miles away, and had promised that if she would go with him on the next Saturday he would show it to her and also reveal a secret which no one knew but himself and in which she could not but take the greatest interest.  The day dawned bright and clear, and while the dew was still on the grass they started.

One of Pepeeta’s sources of enjoyment in these excursions was the constant prattle of the boy about that uncle whose long absence had served rather to increase than to diminish the idolatry of his heart.  This morning, so like the one on which Pepeeta had seen David by the side of the brook when first they met, awakened all the fervor of her love and she could think of nothing else.

“You must point out to me all the places where you and your uncle have ever been together, little brother,” she said to him, as they crossed the field where she had first caught sight of David at the plow.

“Why does thee care to know so much about him?” he asked, naeively looking up into her face.

“Do you not know?” she inquired.

“No, I have asked father and mother, but they will not tell me.”

“If I tell you, will you be true to me?”

“Won’t I, though?  I love thee.  I would fight for thee, if I were not a Quaker’s son!  Perhaps I would fight for thee anyway.”

“You will not need to fight for me, dearest.  I could tell you a story about fighting that would make you wish never to fight again.  Perhaps I will, sometime; but not now, for this must be a happy day and I do not want to sadden it by telling you too much about the shadows that cloud my life.”

He looked up with a pained expression.  “Has thee had troubles?” he asked.