There was a bright little brook that ran into a bog at the foot of a very steep bank.

Here they wandered, picking still a few marsh-marigolds and many big blue forget-me-nots.

Then she sat on the bank with her hands full of flowers, mostly golden water-blobs.

As she put her face down into the marigolds, it was all overcast with a yellow shine.
"Your face is bright," he said, "like a transfiguration." She looked at him, questioning.

He laughed pleadingly to her, laying his hands on hers.