M. Châtelard had been gone some time. The green buds were swelling over the March land. The convalescent had been promoted to her armchair for an hour or two daily, when a telegram summoned Harry English to London. Bethune had undertaken all the preliminary official steps for his friend. Now the moment could not be delayed when the missing officer must give his personal explanations. The excuse of his wife’s danger could no longer be maintained for his absence: he had to leave the Old House without having seen her again. For two mornings after his departure Baby entered her aunt’s room to find her lying among a bower of flowers. The husband was pleading for himself, wooing his love, for the third time. At first he sent no word with his gift, but let these most gracious messengers speak in fragrance. Aspasia was wise enough to hold her tongue upon the subject. Even to her downright perceptions the silence which enwrapped the invalid seemed stirred, palpitating with the awakening of emotions, just as, all over the land, after her winter sleep, the earth was stirred, palpitating, to the promise of spring. The third morning the girl was unwontedly late in making her appearance. But Rosamond did not seem to miss her. She rested, smiling among her pillows, her diaphanous hand enfolding the letter that Mary had (with a subdued look of triumph) brought her on top of an open box overflowing with lily-of-the-valley. Rosamond’s first love-letter had come to her blent with the same perfume. The acrid sweetness rose like a greeting, an intangible intermingling of past and present. It spoke more eloquently than even his words. She drew the flowers slowly from their case. Below all, nestling beneath the waxen bells, she found one deep-hearted dark crimson rose. She held it to her lips, the while she read his letter. * * * * * And so Baby’s presence was not missed. At mid-day she rushed into the room and flung herself upon the bed with so much of her old impetuosity that Rosamond sat up, startled at first, then smiling, shaken from her languor. "What is it, Baby? What a little face of blushes!" In the midst of her own turmoil of emotion, Baby’s faithful heart leaped with joy. Rosamond had not spoken with that natural air these months. "What is it?" repeated the woman, smiling. Aspasia edged along the bed till her hot cheeks were hidden on Rosamond’s neck. Then she thrust out her left hand blindly for inspection. "Look!" "What——?" Yes, in very truth, Rosamond was laughing. "What is it, Baby? ... Ah——" Baby moved her long musician fingers slowly one after the other and finally stuck out the third. "Ah," cried Rosamond again, sharply. "She has seen," thought Aspasia, and was fain to raise her head to behold the effect of the great surprise. "Is it possible," said the other, slowly, "or are you playing me some trick?"