And he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries." She pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes.
"See here," she said.

"Don't let us talk about dying; I don't like it.
Let us talk about living.

Let us talk and talk about Dickon.

And then we will look at your pictures." It was the best thing she could have said.

To talk about Dickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week--and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies.