Miss Deborah, or Miss Ruth, or even Mrs.Dale, would have been careful in using the name of any young woman in writing to a gentleman, but Mrs.Forsythe had not been born in Ashurst.
However, Dick still lingered, and Lois rejoiced, and even her anticipation of the evil time to come, when he should arrive and end her peaceful days, could not check her present contentment.

It was almost May, and that subtile, inexplainable joy of the springtime made it a gladness even to be alive.

Lois rambled about, hunting for the first green spears of that great army of flowers which would soon storm the garden, and carrying any treasure she might find to Mrs.Forsythe's sick-room.

The meadows were spongy with small springs, bubbling up under the faintly green grass.

The daffadown-dillies showed bursting yellow buds, and the pallid, frightened-looking violets brought all their mystery of unfolding life to the girl's happy eyes.
One Saturday morning, while she was looking for the bunch of grape hyacinths which came up each year, beside the stone bench, she was especially light-hearted.