They brushed through the ankle-deep grass, pausing here and there to admire a clump of trees, a striking sky line, or a pretty slope.
To Donaldson it did not seem possible that this could ever end, that any act of nature could blot this from his mind as though it had never been. It was unthinkable that through an eternity he should never know again the meaning of blue sky, of blossoms, of such profligate pictures as now met his eye at every step, but above all, that he should be blind to the girl herself and all for which she stood. No matter how long the journey he was about to take, no matter through what new spheres, these things must remain if anything at all of him remained. So his one thought was to fill himself as full of this day as possible, to crowd into his flagging brain the many pictures of her and this setting which so harmonized with her. The deeper joys of love he might not know, save as his silent heart conjured them, but all that he could see with his eyes should be his. He would fill his soul so full of light that the unknown trail would be less dark to him. He would carry with him for torches the sun and her bright eyes.
"Let's go back as the crow flies," he suggested. "'Cross country—over hill and dale. We must n't turn out for anything," he explained, "we must go crashing through things—trampling them down."
"My," she cried, mocking his fierceness—little realizing the emotion to which they gave vent, "my, things had better look out!"
He paused, caught his breath, and turned to her, an almost terrified smile about his tense mouth.
"Oh, little comrade, you 'd best let me be serious."
"No, no. Not to-day. Let us be as glad as we can,—let us celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" he demanded, lest she might think that he had confessed his thoughts to her.
"Spring," she answered, with a laugh that came from deep within her big happy heart. "Just spring."
"Then we must n't trample down anything?" he queried.