He left the path and struck out over the springy turf into the shade of the wood, keeping his eyes nevertheless upon the ground, and walking guilelessly, as one who contemplates.
And by chance his meditations were broken, and before him, among some tall foxgloves, stood Mollie Gerald.
The poet looked surprised.
"How—how quietly you must walk, Miss Gerald," he said.
She laughed.
"How deeply you must think," she said.
"It—it is good to wake from thought to—to this, you know," he answered, with a bow.
Miss Gerald looked comprehensively into the wood.
"It is pretty, isn't it?" she said.