"Oh, Davie," Mother Bab said innocently as the music ended, "if only you could play like that!"
"If I could," he said half bitterly, "but all I can do is farm. Are you coming home this spring?" he asked me, as if to forget the violin and its player.
"I don't know. I'll probably stay here until early June. I may go away with Virginia for part of the summer."
"Not be home for spring and summer!" he said dismally. "Why, it won't be spring without you! We can't go for bird-foot violets or arbutus."
Arbutus—the name called up a host of memories to me. "How I'd like to go for arbutus this spring," I told him.
"Then come home in April and I'll take you to Mt. Hope for some."
"Oh, David, will you?"
"I'd love to. We'll drive up."
"I'll come," I promised. "I'll come home for arbutus. Let me know when they're out."
"All right. But I think we must go now or we'll miss the train."