"A woman and her mirror," laughed Alden, helping himself to a crisp muffin. "What tales each might tell of the other, if they would!" "Don't misunderstand me, dear," she said, quickly. "It's not that I mind growing old. I've never been the unhappy sort of woman who desires to keep the year for ever at the Spring. Each season has its own beauty--its own charm. We would tire of violets and apple-blossoms if they lasted always. Impermanence is the very essence of joy--the drop of bitterness that enables one to perceive the sweet." [Sidenote: Over the Breakfast Cups] "All of which is undoubtedly true," he returned, gallantly, "but the fact remains that you're not old and never will be. You're merely a girl who has powdered her hair for a fancy-dress ball." "Flatterer!" she said, with affected severity, but the delicate pink flush that bloomed in her cheeks showed that she was pleased. "Will you drive to-day?" he asked, as they rose from the table. "I think not. I'm a hot-house plant, you know, and it seems cold outside." "Have the new books come yet?" "Yes, they came yesterday, but I haven't opened the parcel." "I hope they won't prove as disappointing as the last lot. There wasn't a thing I could ask Rosemary to read. I'm continually falling back on the old ones." "The old books are the best, after all, like the old friends and the old ways." Alden walked around the room restlessly, his hands in his pockets. At length he paused before the window overlooking the vineyard, on the other side of the valley. The slope was bare of snow, now; the vines waited the call of Spring. [Sidenote: Alden's Revolt] A soft footfall sounded beside him, then his mother put a caressing hand upon his shoulder. "It's almost time to begin, isn't it?" she asked. Her beautiful old face was radiant. Impatiently, he shook himself free from her touch. "Mother," he began, "let's have it out once for all. I can't stand this any longer." She sank into the nearest chair, with all the life suddenly gone from her face and figure. In a moment she had grown old, but presently, with an effort, she regained her self-command. "Yes?" she returned, quietly. "What do you wish to do?" "Anything," he answered, abruptly--"anything but this. I want to get out where I can breathe, where the sky fits the ground as far as you can see--where it isn't eternally broken into by these everlasting hills. I'd like to know that dinner wouldn't always be ready at seven o'clock--in fact, I'd like sometimes not to have any dinner at all. I want to get forty miles from a schoolhouse and two hundred miles from a grape. I never want to see another grape as long as I live."