"Certainly!--No comparison."
"I have to learn that yet."
"So I suppose," said Fleda. "The very danger to be apprehended, as I hear, sir, is from your running a tilt into some of those thick folios of yours, head foremost.--There's no pitch there, Hugh--you may leave it alone. We must go on--there are more yellow pines higher up."
"But who could give such a strange character of me to you?" said Mr. Olmney.
"I am sure your wisdom would not advise me to tell you that, sir. You will find nothing there, Mr. Olmney."
They went gayly on, careering about in all directions and bearing down upon every promising stump or dead pine tree they saw in the distance. Hugh and Mr. Olmney took turns in the labour of hewing out the fat pine knots and splitting down the old stumps to get at the pitchy heart of the wood; and the baskets began to grow heavy. The whole party were in excellent spirits, and as happy as the birds that filled the woods and whose cheery "chick-a-dee-dee-dee," was heard whenever they paused to rest and let the hatchet be still.
"How one sees everything in the colour of one's own spectacles," said Fleda.
"May I ask what colour yours are to-day?" said Mr. Olmney.
"Rose, I think," said Hugh.
"No," said Fleda, "they are better than that--they are no worse colour than the snow's own--they shew me everything just as it is. It could not be lovelier."