"I can't stand their eyes, and they squeak so when they're hunting."

"Oh! but that's so jolly, and their eyes are beautiful."

"They're always catching mice and little chickens; all sorts of little
things."

"But they don't mean to; they only want them to eat. Don't you think
things are jolliest at night?"

She slipped her arm in his.

"No; I don't like the dark."

"Why not? It's splendid--when things get mysterious." He dwelt lovingly
on that word.

"I don't like mysterious things. They frighten you."

"Oh, Sylvia!"

"No, I like early morning--especially in spring, when it's beginning to
get leafy."

"Well, of course."

She was leaning against him, for safety, just a little; and stretching
out his arm, he took good hold of the branch to make a back for her.
There was a silence. Then he said: