“Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place,” said Janet, with a sigh.
“But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond.”
“It wasn’t hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?” said Mr Snow.
“It did for want of a bigger, you know,” said Graeme, laughing. “It made up in beauty what it wanted in size.”
“It was a bonny spot,” said Mrs Snow.
“And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then.”
“No, there are no such singing birds here,” said Mrs Snow. “I used to miss the lark’s song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here.”
“Ain’t it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme,” said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife’s voice when she spoke of “home.” Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,—
“No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds—not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding.”
“The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!” said Graeme, with a sigh. “You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too.” Will smiled.