The country was yet bare; the trees had no leaves, no nests, no secrets; but she could see the sap running into the branches, making them dark red, scarlet, or yellow as rods of gold.

Higher up, the pines, always green, took her into their shade; into their calm spirit of unchangeableness, their equal light, their keen aromatic air.

Then came the bare fell, and the raw north wind, and the low gray house, stretching itself under the leafless, outspreading limbs of the sycamores.
In the valley, there had been many wild flowers,--tufts of violets and early primroses,--and even at Up-Hill the blackthorn's stiff boughs were covered with tiny white buds, and here and there an open blossom.

Ducie was in the garden at work; and as Charlotte crossed the steps in its stone wall she lifted her head, and saw her.

Their meeting was free from all demonstration; only a smile, and a word or two of welcome, and yet how conscious of affection! How satisfied both women were! Ducie went on with her task, and Charlotte stood by her side, and watched her drop the brown seeds into the damp, rich earth; watched her clip the box-borders, and loosen the soil about the springing crocus bulbs.