Faint birdnotes threaded the high windless spaces near the tree-tops.
"Look!" said Magdalen, "the first crocus." What is there, what can there be in the first yellow crocus peering against the brown earth, that can reach with instant healing, like a child's "soft absolving touch," the inflamed, aching, unrest of the spirit?
It does not seek to comfort us.

Then how does comfort reach through with the crocus; as if the whole under-world were peace and joy, and were breaking through the thin sod to enfold us?
Fay looked at the flame-pure, upturned face of the little forerunner, absently at first, and then with growing absorption, until two large tears slowly welled up into her eyes and blotted it out.

She shivered, and crept a little closer to her sister.

She felt alienated from she knew not what, dreadfully cold and alone in the sunshine, with her cheek against her sister's shoulder.

Though she did not realise it, something long frost-bound in her mind was yielding, shifting, breaking up.