Then there is always Sunday, when he sits opposite to her in the old church, watching her pretty mischievous little face meditatively throughout the service, and listening to her perfect voice as it rises, clear and full of pathos, in anthem and in hymn. The spring has come at last, though tardy and slow in its approach. Now-- "Buds are bursting on the brier, And all the kindled greenery glows And life hath richest overflows, And morning fields are fringed with fire." Winter is almost forgotten. The snow and frost and ice are as a dream that was told. No one heeds them now, or thinks of them, or feels aught about them, save a sudden chill that such things might have been. To-day is beautiful beyond compare. The sun is high in the heavens; the birds are twittering and preening their soft feathers in the yellow light that Phoebus flings broadcast upon the loving earth. The flowers are waking slowly into life, and stud the mossy woods with colorings distinct though faint: "Nooks of greening gloom Are rich with violets that bloom In the cool dark of dewy leaves." Primroses, too, are all alive, and sit staring at the heavens with their soft eyes, as though in their hearts they feel they are earth's stars. Each subtle green is widening, growing. All nature has arisen from its long slumber, and "beauty walks in bravest dress." Coming up the road, Dorian meets Georgie Broughton, walking with quick steps, and in evident haste, towards the vicarage. She is lilting some merry little song of her own fancy, and has her hat pushed well back from her forehead, so that all her sunny hair can be seen. It is a lovely hat,--inexpensive, perhaps, but lovely, nevertheless, in that it is becoming to the last degree. It is a great big hat, like a coal-scuttle,--as scuttles used to be,--and gives her all the appearance of being the original of one of Kate Greenaway's charming impersonations. "Good-morning," says Dorian, though, in truth, he hardly takes to heart the full beauty of the fair morning that has been sent, so rapt he is in joy at the very sight of her. "Going back to the vicarage now?" "Yes." She is smiling sweetly at him,--the little, kind, indifferent smile that comes so readily to her red lips. "Well, so am I," says Dorian, turning to accompany her. Miss Broughton glances at him demurely. "You can't want to go to the vicarage again?" she says, lifting her brows. "How do you know I have been there at all to-day?" says Dorian. "Oh, because you are always there, aren't you?" says Georgie, shrugging her shoulders, and biting a little flower she has been holding, into two clean halves. "As you know so much, perhaps you also know _why_ I am always there," says Branscombe, who is half amused, half offended, by her wilfulness. "No, I don't," replies she, easily, turning her eyes, for the first time, full upon his. "Tell me."