As they went over the marsh where they had so often played as children they vied with each other in pointing out memorable spots, and the gaiety of the old days mingled with the beauty of the present evening to brighten his spirits.  The marsh was all pied with white—­pearly white of blowing cotton-grass; thick, deader white of water-cress in full flower; faint blurred white of thousands of the heath-bedstraw’s tiny blossoms.  Phoebe in her white gown sprang onto swaying tussocks and picked plumes of cotton-grass to trim herself a garden hat, and Ishmael steadied her passage.

“Oh, Ishmael, I’m so glad you’ve come back!” she told him, lifting a glowing face, haloed by the rose-lined hat that had slipped to her shoulders and was only held in place by a pink velvet ribbon which was not softer than the throat it barred.

“It’s often dull here,” she ran on.  “There’s not many people I care about going with since I came back from boarding school, and even for those I do go with Vassie spoils it by saying I’m demeaning myself.  She’s such a fine lady.”

“And aren’t you?” asked Ishmael, laughing; “that was my first thought when I saw you, anyway.”

“Was it?” She dimpled with pleasure, but added shrewdly:  “I’m not one, though.  I like getting away from it all and working in the dairy and looking after the tiny calves.  I like that best of all, that and my baby chickens.  But Vassie’s only happy when she’s dressed up and paying visits.”

“I like your way best,” he assured her, thinking what a jolly little thing she was after all.  But Phoebe’s mind could not keep its attention on any one theme for more than a minute, and her eyes and thoughts were wandering.  Suddenly she gave a little cry.

“Oh, look at those beauties!  I must have them!” And she pointed to where, on a vividly green patch of marsh, a whole grove of cotton-grass stood up in the glow of the setting sun.  The golden light poured through the silky tufts, making of each a flake of fire, all raining at the same slight slope from hair-fine stems.  Against the turf they looked for all the world like Chinese lanterns swung for some miniature revel of the fairies—­they seemed literally to diffuse light upon the air.  Ishmael stood staring, stung to excitement by that suddenly-glimpsed beauty; but Phoebe darted forward, and the next moment had withdrawn a foot whose stout country shoe and white stocking were dripping greenly.

“Here, let me!” cried Ishmael; but she waved him back.

“No, you’re too heavy; you’d go through at once.  Hold my hand while I lean over;” and she swung outwards from his grasp, her other hand stretching vainly.

“Best leave that lot,” advised Ishmael; “there’s some much easier to get at just along there.”

She turned her head, body still swung forward, and followed the line of his pointing finger to where a cluster of grass as fine, but untransmuted, stood in shadow.