They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green — only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.

“It's distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”

George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.

“Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?”

No one knew, or seemed to care.