and pulled at the low branches with their tender buds. We were filled with the flow of the Spring and seeking to express it, as in the old barbaric days, by means of destruction. . . . At the foot of the slope a little maple tree was growing, tentative as a sunbeam and scarcely thicker, left by the Spring that had last been that way. When she reached it, Delia laid hold on it, and had it out by its slight root, and tossed it on the moss.
“W-h-e-e-e!” cried Delia, “I wish it was Arbour Day to-morrow too!”
Mary Elizabeth stopped laughing. “I turn here,” she said. “It’s the short cut. Good-bye—I had a grand time. The best time I ever had.”
Delia pretended not to hear. She said nothing. The others called casual good-byes over shoulder. Going home, they rebuked me soundly for having invited Mary Elizabeth. Delia rehearsed the array of reasons. If she came to school, we would have to know her, she wound up. I remember feeling baffled and without argument. All that they said was true, and yet—
“I’m going to see her,” I announced stoutly,
