It was early spring, and as yet there were no buds upon the trees, no daffodils upon the lawns.

The house, standing apart in its bare garden of brown earth, black trees, and dull green turf, had a desolate aspect which somehow filled him with remorse.
He might have done more, perhaps, to fill this house with happiness.

He feared that, now that it was too late to do the things left undone.

He had been so absorbed in his great plans, which for a moment lost in his eyes their magnitude.
Dick Linforth found his mother in the study, through the window of which she had once looked from the garden in the company of Colonel Dewes.

She was writing her letters, and when she saw him enter, she sprang up with a cry of joy.
"Dick!" she cried, coming towards him with outstretched hands.