A sweet gravity and consecration of thought possessed her, and the pink blossoms falling into her basket were not more delicate than the rose-coloured dreams that flushed her soul.
Anthony put in the last wooden peg, and taking up his violin called, “Davy, boy, come out and tell me what this means!”
Davy was used to this; from a wee boy he had been asked to paint the changing landscape of each day, and to put into words his uncle’s music.
Lyddy dropped her needle; the birds stopped to listen, and Anthony played.
“It is this apple-orchard in May-time,” said Davy; “it is the song of the green things growing, isn’t it?”
“What do say, dear?” asked Anthony, turning to his wife.
Love and content had made a poet of Lyddy. “I think Davy is right,” she said. “It is a dream of the future, the story of all new and beautiful things growing out of the old. It is full of the sweetness of present joy, but there is promise and hope in it besides. It is as if the Spring was singing softly to herself because she held the baby Summer in her arms.”
Davy did not quite understand this, though he thought it pretty; but Lyddy’s husband did, and when the boy went back to his books, he took his wife in his arms and kissed her twice—once for herself, and then once again.