Sometimes Alden wrote to her, but she was unable to answer, for stationery and stamps were unfamiliar possessions; Grandmother held the purse-strings tightly, and every penny had to be accounted for. On Thursday, Rosemary always went to the post-office, as _The Household Guardian_ was due then, so it happened that occasionally she received a letter, or a book which she could not return until Spring. At length, the Hill of the Muses became the one possible rendezvous, though, at the chosen hour of four, Rosemary was usually too weary to attempt the long climb. Moreover, she must be back by six to get supper, so one little hour was all she might ever hope for, at a time. [Sidenote: Far Above Her] Yet these hours had become a rosary of memories to her, jewelled upon the chain of her uneventful days. Alden's unfailing friendliness and sympathy warmed her heart, though she had never thought of him as a possible lover. In her eyes, he was as far above her as the fairy prince had been above Cinderella. It was only kindness that made him stoop at all. When the school bell, sounding for dismissal, echoed through the valley below, Rosemary hung her scarlet signal to the outstanding bough of the lowest birch, and went back to the crest of the hill to wait for him. She had with her the little red book that he had given her long ago, and which she had not had opportunity to return. She turned the pages regretfully, though she knew the poems almost by heart. Days, while she washed dishes and scrubbed, the exquisite melody of the words haunted her, like some far-off strain of music. For the first time she had discovered the subtle harmonies of which the language is capable, entirely apart from sense. Living lines stood out upon the printed page, glowing with a rapture all their own. [Sidenote: Thrilling Lines] "Now, shadowed by his wings, our faces yearn Together," she read aloud, thrilled by the very sound. "Tender as dawn's first hill-fire," ... "What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May," ... "Shadows and shoals that edge eternity." ... "Oh," she breathed, "if only I didn't have to give it back!" "Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all? One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,-- One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand." "What, indeed?" thought Rosemary. What was she to Love, or what ever might she be? "But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, Up your warm throat to your warm lips: for this" ... Rosemary put the book down, face to face at last with self-knowledge. She would have torn down the flaming signal, but it was too late. If he were coming--and he never had failed to come--he would be there very soon. * * * * *