The grass is springing; all the world is rich with fresh young life. The very snowdrops--pale blossoms, born of bitter winds and sunless skies--have perished out of sight. Ruth is lying in her grave, cold and forgotten save by two,--the man who has most wronged her, and the woman who had most to forgive her. As yet, Clarissa cannot rise out of the depression that fell upon her when Horace's treachery was first made known to her. Her love had seemed so good, so tender, it had so brightened all her life, and had been so much a part of her existence, that it seemed to carry to the grave with it all her youth and gladness. However untrue this young love of her life had been, still, while she believed in it, it had been beautiful to her, and it is with bitterest grief she has laid it aside; to her it had been a living thing, and even as it fades from her she cries to it aloud to stay, and feels her arms empty in that it no longer fills them. "But, oh, not yet, not yet Would my lost soul forget How beautiful he was while he did live, Or, when his eyes were dewy and lips wet, What kisses, tenderer than all regret, My love would give. "Strew roses on his breast,-- He loved the roses best; He never cared for lilies or for snow. Let be this bitter end of his sweet quest; Let be the pallid silence, that is rest, And let all go!" Mr. Winter's exquisite words come often to her; and yet, when the first great pang is over, a sensation that may be almost called relief raises her soul and restores her somewhat to her old self. She is graver--if possible, gentler, more tender--than in the days before grief had touched her. And, though her love has really died beyond all reawakening, still the memory of what once had been has left its mark upon her. To Sir James she has never since mentioned the name of the man in whom she had once so firmly believed, though oftentimes it has occurred to her that relief might follow upon the bare asking of a question that might serve to make common the actual remembrance of him. To-day, as Scrope comes up the lawn to meet her, as she bends over the "bright children of the sun," a sense of gladness that he is coming fills her. She feels no nervousness or weariness with him, only rest and peace, and something that is deeper still, though yet vague and absolutely unknown to her own heart. She goes forward to meet him, a smile upon her lips, treading lightly on the young grass, that is emerald in hue,--as the color of my own dear land,--and through which "The meek daisies show Their breasts of satin snow, Bedecked with tiny stars of gold mid perfume sighs." "You again?" she says, with a lovely smile. He was here only yesterday. "What an uncivil speech! Do I come too often?" He has her hand in his, and is holding it inquiringly, but it is such a soft and kind inquiry.