THE BRIDEGROOM COMES About the last week of February my joy came home.

I remember that it was exquisite weather, the blackbird singing his passionate song in the bare boughs fit to break your heart with its beauty.

There were high, white, shining clouds on the blue, and the mountains were grey-lavender.

The wall-flower clumps were in bloom in the courtyard of the Abbey, and there were many primroses and delicate primulas in the garden; and all the hyacinths were out withindoors, making a delicious smell.
I went to meet my joy with a heart in which there was no sorrow.

Richard Dawson was out of danger, and little Robin Ardaragh's case had proved to be merely chicken-pox.