So, when the snow-drops and crocus began to star the greensward in early March, Viola came home again to her father and aunt, who had fretted sorely over her absence, though they had not complained, because, as Aunt Edwina naively said, they hoped she was “getting over things.” Whether she had “got over things” or not, Viola did not say. She was even more beautiful, if that were possible, than before she went abroad; but it was not the arch beauty of the girl Viola, but the chastened loveliness of the woman who has suffered, and gained depth of feeling and nobility by her experience. In her great, luminous gray eyes lurked a haunting sadness, and her smile had a pensive expression unknown to it before. “Since I met thee last, O’er thy brow a change hath passed; In the softness of thine eyes, Deep and still a shadow lies; From thy voice there thrills a tone Never to thy childhood known; Through thy soul a storm has moved-- Gentle mourner, thou hast loved.” Her first visit was made to the portrait still waiting for her at the studio. “You will leave me alone with it, please, Florian,” she said, with a quivering lip; and he retired with Mae to the alcove, where in sweet lovers’ talk they took no note of the time that flew while Viola remained motionless before the portrait, gazing with humid eyes at the likeness so faithfully transferred to canvas thinking: “Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard them last. Those lips are thine; thine own sweet smile I see, The same that erst didst gently comfort me. Voice only fails, else how distinct they say: ‘Grieve not, my love, chase all thy fears away!’” When she turned away at last, and sought Florian with outstretched hand, she faltered: “It is perfect. I can find no words strong enough for my gratitude.” “It is enough that I have pleased you,” the artist answered, gladly; and then she and Mae took leave, promising to bring Mrs. Maxwell to the studio tomorrow, after which the portrait would be removed to her own home. Florian was deeply puzzled over Viola’s emotion, thinking: “It looks somehow as if she really loved the fellow after all; but I do not understand it, for she certainly married him out of pure pique after being jilted by Desha, whom she claimed to love so dearly. Well, these women, they are past finding out.” Viola accompanied Mae to the cottage, and they spent several hours unpacking the boxes of beautiful things she had brought for the _trousseau_. Mae was wild with delight and gratitude. She sobbed on Viola’s neck: “I do not deserve your goodness. There were weeks when I hated you and almost wished you dead.” “That is all past now, dear. Let us forget it,” Viola answered, with a smothered sigh, as she held up a pattern of pale-blue brocade against Mae’s face, adding, admiringly: “This silver hue is very becoming to your complexion, Mae.”