The noise of footsteps on dry twigs, of rustling in the alder bushes, the calls of Telesphore and Alma Rose to one another, all faded slowly into the distance, and about each gatherer was only the buzzing of flies drunk with sunshine, and the voice of the wind in the young birches and aspens.
"There is a fine clump over here," said a voice.

Maria's heart beat faster as she arose and went toward Francois Paradis who was kneeling behind the alders.

Side by side they picked industriously for a time, then plunged farther into the woods, stepping over fallen trees, looking about them for the deep blue masses of the ripe berries.
"There are very few this year," said Francois.

"It was the spring frosts that killed the blossoms." He brought to the berry-seeking his woodsman's knowledge.

"In the hollows and among the alders the snow was lying longer and kept them from freezing." They sought again and made some happy finds: broad clumps of bushes laden with huge berries which they heaped into their pails.