Away to the right below her window were the first trees of the fruit garden; for many of them Spring was over, but the apple-trees had just come into blossom, and the low sun shining through a gap in some far elms was slanting on their creamy pink, christening them--Nedda thought--with drops of light; and lovely the blackbirds' singing sounded in the perfect hush! How wonderful to be a bird, going where you would, and from high up in the air seeing everything; flying down a sunbeam, drinking a raindrop, sitting on the very top of a tall tree, running in grass so high that you were hidden, laying little perfect blue-green eggs, or pure-gray speckly ones; never changing your dress, yet always beautiful.

Surely the spirit of the world was in the birds and the clouds, roaming, floating, and in the flowers and trees that never smelled anything but sweet, never looked anything but lovely, and were never restless.

Why was one restless, wanting things that did not come--wanting to feel and know, wanting to love, and be loved?
And at that thought which had come to her so unexpectedly--a thought never before shaped so definitely--Nedda planted her arms on the window-sill, with sleeves fallen down, and let her hands meet cup-shaped beneath her chin.

Love! To have somebody with whom she could share everything--some one to whom and for whom she could give up--some one she could protect and comfort--some one who would bring her peace.

Peace, rest--from what?
Ah! that she could not make clear, even to herself.