At first she only walked to hide her tears; then gradually the purpose formed within her to go on to the break in the road.  There was no reason why she should not go to see the mishap.  Truly there had been many a breakdown on this road before and Zilda had never stirred foot to examine them, but now she walked on steadily.  Her fear told her that Gilby might find some means of getting on to the next station, some engine laden with supplies for the workmen from the other station might take him back with it.  If so, what good would this her journey do?  Ah, but perhaps the good God would allow her to see him first, or—­well, she walked on, reason or no reason.

The sun was high, the blue of the sky seemed a hundred miles in depth, and not wisp or feather of cloud in it anywhere!  Where the flat fields were untilled they were very green, a green that was almost yellow, it was so bright.  Within the strip of railway land a tangle of young bushes grew, and on every twig buds were bursting.  About a mile back from the road, on either side, fir woods stood, the trees in close level phalanx.  Everywhere over the land birds big and little were fluttering and flying.

Zilda did not notice any of these things; she had only learned to observe two things in nature, both of which Gilby had pointed out to her—­the red or yellow rose of the winter sunset, the depth of colour in the petals of her flowers.  Nature was to her like a language of which she had only been told the meaning of two words.  In the course of the next month she learned the meaning of a few more; she never made further progress, but what she learned she learned.

The river which, farther on, had done damage to the line, here ran close to it for some distance, consequently Zilda came to the river before she reached the scene of the disaster.  The river banks at this season were marshy, green like plush or velvet when it is lifted dripping from green vats of the brightest dye.  There were some trees by the river bank, maples and elms, and every twig was tipped with a crimson gem.  Zilda did not see the beauty of the river bank either; she regarded nothing until she came to a place where a foot-track was beaten down the side of the embankment, as if apparently to entice walkers to stray across a bit of the meadow and so cut off a large curve of the line.  At this point Zilda heard a loud chirpy voice calling,’Hi! hi! who’s there?  Is any one there?’

Zilda did not know from whence the voice came, but she knew from whom it came.  It was Gilby’s voice, and she stopped, her soul ravished by the music.  All the way along, bobolinks, canaries, and song-sparrows had been singing to her, the swallows and red-throats had been talking; everywhere among the soft spongy mosses, the singing frog of the Canadian spring had been filling the air with its one soft whistling note.  Zilda had not heard them, but now she stopped suddenly with head bent, listening eager, enraptured.