“Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled——”
He waved an umbrella off to where a hill flashed back a thousand lights from its jewelled grass-blades thickly set.
“The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn,”
went on Celia suddenly catching his spirit, and pointing to a lark that darted up into the blue with a trill of the morning in his throat.
Gordon turned appreciative eyes upon her. It was good to have her take up his favorite poet in that tone of voice—a tone that showed she too knew and loved Browning.
“God’s in his heaven,
All’s right with the world,”
finished Gordon in a quieter voice, looking straight into her eyes. “That seems very true, to-day, doesn’t it?”