They walked down the long, smooth road together past the bridge and round the turn, and there on the hill before them lay the woods in all the beauty of the springtime verdure. They had been talking of the trial, Darcy telling her all that had gone on before she arrived, and also of the second trial where he had paid the fine and been set free. But now, at the turn of the road, they stopped and looked. The scene was so lovely, one could but exclaim at the beauty of the hillside. The fields were green and dotted with violets where they walked, and all about were spicy odors of the spring, with exquisite perfumes in the making. Before them rose the woods, pale greens stippled with red buds on their tips, and a background of darker pines. And now they spoke of Aunt Mary and the day they had spent together. As they entered the woods frail anemones scattered their pathway, and hepaticas, blue and white, met them in groups where maiden hair hid, and little curled fern fronds stuck up through the black mould. As they walked down that pine-strewn path, flower broidered and dim, each was conscious of the last time they had passed that way. They had gone out from that arched silence a boy and girl, they were reëntering man and woman. For a few moments neither spoke. Then Darcy, as if he were treading holy ground: “It was here you sat when I first saw you.” Joyce flashed him a golden look. “And you there?” she pointed. “I have always wanted to go there and sit myself,” she said, “with my feet hanging over that rock.” “Let’s go!” he said, and caught her hand. He helped her down to a comfortable spot, where the mossy rock shelved over the water, and the little brook babbled over bright stones in a quiet, musical way. Sitting there he told her of the deep experience of his heart. Of how that day and the story of the blind man had lingered with him all those years, until he came to understand that he was blind, and he was a sinner and needed a Saviour. He told her how her eyes had pierced his soul, like the thought of God searching him, and how he had finally surrendered. He spoke of the peace and joy that were his now, and of his Bible. And then Joyce told him how she had come in out of the rain and heard him talking, and tried to reach him and failed. The sun dropped lower in the west and the long shadows came within their sweet retreat. Finally, they sat in silence, just listening to the birds, and the tinkle of the water, feeling how good it was to be here after the years. Suddenly Darcy began to speak again: