The boy's thin, dark face, so astonishingly like his father's, was lifted toward the sky as he came stumbling up the path, but his eyes were everywhere at once. Just before he reached the door, he set the bucket down with a cry of ecstasy and darted to the edge of the garden, where the peas were just thrusting green bowed heads through the crumbling earth. He knelt above them breathless, he looked up to the maple-twigs, over which a faint reddish bloom had been cast in the night, beyond to the lower slopes of the mountain, delicately patterned with innumerable white stems of young birch-trees, and clasped his hands to see that a shimmer of green hung in their tops like a mist. His lips quivered, he laid his hand upon a tuft of grass with glossy, lance-like blades, and stroked it.
His father came to the door and called him. "Nathaniel!"
He sprang up with guilty haste and went toward the house. A shriveling change of expression came over him.
The minister began, "A wise son heareth his father's instructions; but a scorner heareth not rebuke."
"I hear you, father."
"Why did you linger in the garden and forget your duty?"
"I—I cannot tell you, father."
"Do you mean you do not know why?"
"I cannot say I do not know."
"Then answer me."
Nathaniel broke out desperately, "I cannot, father—I know no words—I was—it is so warm—the sun shines—the birches are out—I was glad"
The minister bowed his head sadly. "Aye, even as
