The Park was clothed in the double glitter of snow and sunshine. They roamed the hard white alleys to a continuous tinkle of sleigh-bells, and Kate brightened with the exhilaration of the scene. It was not often that she permitted herself such an escape from routine, and in this new environment, which seemed to detach her from her daily setting, Stanwell had his first complete vision of her. To the girl also their unwonted isolation seemed to create a sense of fuller communion, for she began presently, as they reached the leafless solitude of the Ramble, to speak with sudden freedom of her brother. It appeared that the orders against which Caspar had so heroically steeled himself were slow in coming: he had received no commission since the sale of his group, and he was beginning to suffer from a reaction of discouragement. Oh, it was not the craving for popularity--Stanwell knew how far above that he stood. But it had been exquisite, yes, exquisite to him to find himself believed in, understood. He had fancied that the purchase of the group was the dawn of a tardy recognition--and now the darkness of indifference had set in again, no one spoke of him, no one wrote of him, no one cared. "If he were in good health it would not matter--he would throw off such weakness, he would live only for the joy of his work; but he is losing ground, his strength is failing, and he is so afraid there will not be time enough left--time enough for full recognition," she explained. The quiver in her voice silenced Stanwell: he was afraid of echoing it with his own. At length he said: "Oh, more orders will come. Success is a gradual growth." "Yes, _real_ success," she said, with a solemn note in which he caught--and forgave--a reflection on his own facile triumphs. "But when the orders do come," she continued, "will he have strength to carry them out? Last winter the doctor thought he only needed work to set him up; now he talks of rest instead! He says we ought to go to a warm climate--but how can Caspar leave the group?" "Oh, hang the group--let him chuck the order!" cried Stanwell. She looked at him tragically. "The money is spent," she said. He coloured to the roots of his hair. "But ill-health--ill-health excuses everything. If he goes away now he will come back good for twice the amount of work in the spring. A sculptor is not expected to deliver a statue on a given day, like a package of groceries! You must do as the doctor says--you must make him chuck everything and go." They had reached a windless nook above the lake, and, pausing in the stress of their talk, she let herself sink on a bench beside the path. The movement encouraged him, and he seated himself at her side. "You must take him away at once," he repeated urgently. "He must be made comfortable--you must both be free from worry. And I want you to let me manage it for you--" He broke off, silenced by her rising blush, her protesting murmur.