"Why should they be?" he questioned, with sudden bitterness. "You are more like that swallow flying up there than you are like any Fletcher that ever lived."
She smiled. "I thought so once," she answered, "but now I know better. The likeness must be there, and I am going to find it."
"You will never find it," he insisted, "for there is nothing of them in you—nothing."
"You don't like them, I remember."
"Nor do you."
A laugh broke from her and humour rippled in her eyes.
"So you still persist in the truth, and in the plain truth!" she exclaimed.
"Then it is so, you confess it?"
"No, no, no," she protested. "Why, I love them all—all, do you hear, and I love Will more than the rest of them put together."
He looked away from her, and then, turning, waited for the oxen to reach the summit of the hill.