“Ah—if you are so cold—how cold you are!—it gives me little shivers when you look so—and I am always hot—Lettie!” “Well?” “You are cruel! Kiss me—now—No, I don’t want your cheek—kiss me yourself. Why don’t you say something?” “What for? What’s the use of saying anything when there’s nothing immediate to say?” “You are offended!” “It feels like snow to-day,” she answered. At last, however, winter began to gather her limbs, to rise, and drift with saddened garments northward. The strike was over. The men had compromised. It was a gentle way of telling them they were beaten. But the strike was over. The birds fluttered and dashed; the catkins on the hazel loosened their winter rigidity, and swung soft tassels. All through the day sounded long, sweet whistlings from the brushes; then later, loud, laughing shouts of bird triumph on every hand. I remember a day when the breast of the hills was heaving in a last quick waking sigh, and the blue eyes of the waters opened bright. Across the infinite skies of March great rounded masses of cloud had sailed stately all day, domed with a white radiance, softened with faint, fleeting shadows as if companies of angels were gently sweeping past; adorned with resting, silken shadows like those of a full white breast. All day the clouds had moved on to their vast destination, and I had clung to the earth yearning and impatient. I took a brush and tried to paint them, then I raged at myself. I wished that in all the wild valley where cloud shadows were travelling like pilgrims, something would call me forth from my rooted loneliness. Through all the grandeur of the white and blue day, the poised cloud masses swung their slow flight, and left me unnoticed. At evening they were all gone, and the empty sky, like a blue bubble over us, swam on its pale bright rims. Leslie came, and asked his betrothed to go out with him, under the darkening wonderful bubble. She bade me accompany her, and, to escape from myself, I went. It was warm in the shelter of the wood and in the crouching hollows of the hills. But over the slanting shoulders of the hills the wind swept, whipping the redness into our faces. “Get me some of those alder catkins, Leslie,” said Lettie, as we came down to the stream. “Yes, those, where they hang over the brook. They are ruddy like new blood freshening under the skin. Look, tassels of crimson and gold!” She pointed to the dusty hazel catkins mingled with the alder on her bosom. Then she began to quote Christina Rossetti’s “A Birthday.” “I’m glad you came to take me a walk,” she continued—“Doesn’t Strelley Mill look pretty? Like a group of orange and scarlet fungi in a fairy picture. Do you know, I haven’t been, no, not for quite a long time. Shall we call now?” “The daylight will be gone if we do. It is half past five—more! I saw him—the son—the other morning.” “Where?” “He was carting manure—I made haste by.” “Did he speak to you—did you look at him?”