“Yes,” said Max, perspiring freely. “Isn’t there a better path than this?”
“No; this is the best, and it’s beautiful to-day. After rain this is a regular waterfall.”
“Ou ay, there’s a teal o’ peautiful watter comes town here sometimes,” said Scood.
They climbed on by patches of ragwort all golden stars, with the ladies’ mantle of vivid green, with its dentate edge, neat folds, and pearly dewdrop in the centre, and by patches of delicate moss, with the pallid butterwort peeping, and by fern and club moss, heath and heather, and great patches of whortleberry and bog-myrtle, every turn and resting-place showing some lovely rock-garden dripping with pearly drops, and possessing far more attraction for Max than the quest upon which they were engaged.
“Ah, only wait till you’ve been here a month,” cried Kenneth, “and your wind will be better than this.”
“Don’t you get as hot as I am with climbing?”
“I should think not, indeed. Why, Scood and I could almost run up here. Couldn’t we, Scood?”
“Ou ay; she could run up and run town too.”
“Is it much farther to the top?” said Max, after a few minutes’ farther climb; and he seated himself upon a beautiful green cushion of moss, and then jumped up again, to the great delight of his companions, who roared with laughter as they saw a jet of water spurt out, and noted Max’s look of dismay. For it was as if he had chosen for a seat some huge well-charged sponge.
“I—I did not know it was so wet.”