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 and was a wonderful picture of perfect cultivation. Market gardens and small farms in every direction, and all among the fields were people working with plows and hoes and harrows and fingers. Everyone was busy, and the keen smell of fresh earth in the spring-time and of bruised green growths, came blowing from far over toward the foot of the mountains. All were working with zeal, and their voices sounded gay and full of enthusiasm as they called to each other, or shouted to their horses, or sang at their tasks. Marjorie walked along, looking this way and that at the cheery life of the valley, and breathing in great breaths of the clear, sweet air. "Isn't it a wonderful valley?" she said to the Dream. "All of the people, and the animals, and the soil, and even the very air, seem to be full of eagerness to see what is to be brought forth, and can scarcely work fast enough in their anxiety to help."

"Work and expectation are wonderful hearteners," said the Dream. "They are the finest stimulants that ever were manufactured."

"Yes, and the very atmosphere here is full of just those things," said Marjorie. "It makes me feel as if I just must get busy myself, right off. I am absolutely the only person in this whole valley who isn't working."

"No," said the Dream; "You are not as lonesome as you think."

Marjorie looked about, and then for the first