Davy was used to this; from a wee boy he had been asked to paint the
changing landscape of each day, and to put into words his uncle's
music.

Lyddy dropped her needle; the birds stopped to listen, and Anthony
played.

"It is this apple-orchard in May-time," said Davy; "it is the song of
the green things growing, isn't it?"

"What do say, dear?" asked Anthony, turning to his wife.

Love and content had made a poet of Lyddy. "I think Davy is right,"
she said. "It is a dream of the future, the story of all new and
beautiful things growing out of the old. It is full of the sweetness
of present joy, but there is promise and hope in it besides. It is
as if the Spring was singing softly to herself because she held the
baby Summer in her arms."

Davy did not quite understand this, though he thought it pretty; but
Lyddy's husband did, and when the boy went back to his books, he took
his wife in his arms and kissed her twice--once for herself, and then
once again.