“Boy!” she called, clearly.  “Oh, Boy!”

Allison turned, startled, then came to her, smiling, hat in hand.  “Upon my word,” he said.  “I didn’t think there was anyone else mad enough to come out at this hour.”

“Why it’s Spring!  Didn’t you know?”

“Yes.  It came this morning just before sunrise.”

“Were you awake?”

“Yes, were you?”

“Of course,” she answered.  “I couldn’t stay in.”

“Nor could I.”

    “The year’s at the spring,
     And day’s at the morn;
     Morning’s at seven;
     The hill-side’s dew-pearled,”

Rose quoted.  “You know the rest, don’t you?”

“The rest doesn’t matter.  ’Morning waits at the end of the world—­Gypsy, come away!’”

“I’ll go,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on his, “anywhere!”

“To the river, then.  The last time I saw it, ice and snow had hidden it completely.”

The path was narrow until they got out of the woods, so Rose went ahead.  “I don’t believe I fooled that robin by whistling to him,” Allison continued.  “He pretended I did, but I believe he was only trying to be polite.”

“He wasn’t, if it was the same robin I saw in our garden this morning.  I spoke to him most pleasantly and told him not to be afraid of me, but he disappeared with a very brief, chirpy good-bye.”

“Don’t hurry so,” he said, as he came up beside her and assisted her over a fallen tree.  “We’ve got the whole day, haven’t we?”

“We have all the time there is,” laughed Rose.  “Everybody has, for that matter.”

“Have you had your breakfast?”

“No, have you?”

“Far from it.  Everybody was asleep when I came out.”

“Then you’ll have breakfast with me,” she said, quickly.

“Thank you,” he smiled, “for taking the hint.”

“But won’t your father miss you?” she queried, with mock seriousness.

“He pays no attention whatever to my irregular habits, and I think that’s one reason why we get on so well together.  It’s a wise father who knows his own child.”

“Especially if it is a wise child,” she replied.  Her eyes were dancing with mirth, a scarlet signal burned on either cheek, and her parted lips were crimson.  She seemed lovelier to him than ever before.

“Honestly, Rose, you seem to get prettier every day.”

“Then,” she smiled, “if I were younger, I might eventually become dangerous.”

“Rose—­”

“Old Rose,” she interrupted.  The high colour faded from her face as she spoke and left her pale.

Allison put his hand on her arm and stopped.  “Rose, please don’t.  You’re not a day older than I am.”

“Ten years,” she insisted stubbornly, for women are wont to lean upon the knife that stabs them and she was in a reckless mood.  “When you’re forty, I’ll be fifty.”

A shadow crossed his face.  “It hurts me, someway, to have you talk so.  I don’t know how—­nor why.”