The years that had lifted Sandy forward toward vigor and strength and manhood had swept over Martha relentlessly, beating out her frail strength, and leaving her weaker to combat each incoming tide.

Her straight, straw-colored hair lay smooth about her delicate face, and in her eyes was the strained look of one who seeks but is destined never to attain.
"Let's go over the Latin once more," she was saying patiently, "just to make sure you understand." "Devil a bit more!" cried Sandy, jumping up from where he lay in the grass and tossing the book lightly from her hand; "it's the sin and the shame to keep you poking in books, now the spring is here.
Martha, do you mind the sound of the wind in the tree-tops ?" She nodded, and he went on: "Does it put strange words in your heart that you can't even think out in your head?
If I could be translating the wind and the river, I'd never be minding the Latin again." Martha looked at him half timidly.
"Sometimes, do you know, I almost think you are a poet, Sandy; you are always thinking the things the poets write about." "Do you, now, true ?" he asked seriously, dropping down on the grass beside her.

Then he laughed.

"You'll be having me writing rhymes, now, in a minute." "Why not ?" she urged.
"I must stick to my course," he said.

"I'd never be a real one.