“And he came,” they said, “and we knew him. He had looked at the water, he had looked at the meadows, he had looked at us, but none of us were what he looked for. He looked for one, for one, for the one,” and their branches clashed together.
Jeannie, in her seat where her hat had lain as Miss Fortescue made tea, gave a great sigh, and this filled her lungs with the living air.
“I did not know,” she answered. “How should I have known?”
“The way of a man with a maid,” said the grass. “Oh, I have seen often in summer evenings——”
“Yes, and we have seen,” said a hundred leaves of the brambles. “You have no idea of their folly. They sail little boats of straw or leaves, and wonder which will win. But for me, I always let the maid’s boat win. I do not care so much for the young men.”
“But I care, I care,” said the river. “The young men bathe in me, and with strong arms, and laughing, they deride my waves, or from the top of high ladders they throw themselves headlong to meet me. But I love them, and loving them I do not suffer them to touch the ooze of the bed, but bear them gently up, and they know not it was I, but say to each other, ‘That was a good header!’”
But the elms answered softly:
“Both I love, the man and the maid, for both sit by me, and tell their love. And the spell of the woodland and the country is in their blood, though they know it not—for who can make love in towns?—and it is I who bring them together. Even now he comes, he comes, he comes—” and a louder blast swept through them.
Jeannie heard and understood.
“He comes,” she said softly to herself. “I knew he would come.”