One day--it is the end of March now, the year is no longer a swaddled baby, it is shooting up into a tall stripling--I have been straying about the brown gardens, _alone_, of course.

It is a year to-day since Bobby and I together strolled among the kitchen-stuff in the garden at home, since he served me that ill turn with the ladder.

Every thing reminds me of that day: these might be the same crocus-clumps, as those that last year frightened away winter with their purple and gold banners.

I remember that, as I looked down their deep throats, I was humming Tou Tou's verb, "J'aime, I love; Tu aimes, Thou lovest; Il aime, He loves." I sigh.

There was the same purple promise over the budded woods; the same sharpness in the bustling wind.