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"It's a treat of a swing," he said.
"Yes."
He was swinging through the air, every bit of him swinging, like a bird
that swoops for joy of movement. And he looked down at her. Her crimson
cap hung over her dark curls, her beautiful warm face, so still in a
kind of brooding, was lifted towards him. It was dark and rather cold in
the shed. Suddenly a swallow came down from the high roof and darted out
of the door.
"I didn't know a bird was watching," he called.
He swung negligently. She could feel him falling and lifting through the
air, as if he were lying on some force.
"Now I'll die," he said, in a detached, dreamy voice, as though he were
the dying motion of the swing. She watched him, fascinated. Suddenly he
put on the brake and jumped out.
"I've had a long turn," he said. "But it's a treat of a swing--it's a
real treat of a swing!"
Miriam was amused that he took a swing so seriously and felt so warmly
over it.
"No; you go on," she said.
"Why, don't you want one?" he asked, astonished.


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