“Have everything.”
René laughed.
“Except the power to jump stiles.”
“Oh! I love to see you do it.”
“And I love to see your inability.”
“We both get over it. That is all that matters.”
“That’s a hard, common-sensible woman.”
They reached a place where the trees—beech, pine, and larch—came marching up a steep hill, so steep that they could see over the tops of the trees out to the plain beneath. The mists wreathed and broke. A pale blue sky shone through them, and the sun cast pale yellow lights. Cathleen began to sing as they plunged down the hill. René started to run, could not stop himself, and went tearing down, shouting like mad until he was brought up by a wide ditch. There he turned and watched Cathleen threading her way through the trees, singing. The wind came roaring, whispering and muttering through the leaves, and the trees swayed and moaned. Cathleen came running the last few yards, and he caught her. She held up her laughing face and they kissed, and the wind seemed to sweep through them and set them swaying like the trees. Their blood raced in their glee.
On the way back they gathered blackberries, and in a green clearing in the woods they found mushrooms. Happy they were to take such treasure back to Lotta, their friend, who had made such wonders possible for them.