for China at dawn, that was nobody's business but his own.
Mr. Bolliver and Jane found a snowdrop in the moist garden next morning—the first snowdrop. The aunts put on their overshoes and came out to see it. It was blooming away, all by itself, under the southwest window of the library. It looked very clear and young and frail and perfect, there in the midst of wet fallen leaves and black earth. During a bleak Northern winter it is easy to forget how luminous and wonderful a flower can be, growing by itself, miraculously, from sodden ground. The aunts stood holding their skirts carefully, and even discreetly sniffed the first warm waking breath of the garden, and smiled.
Jane and Mr. Bolliver repaired later to Ingram Wharf, and there leaned upon piles and talked. Coming spring was on the water, too. Across the harbor weather-beaten freighters, their sides a network of scaffolding, showed brilliant patches of red lead across their stained gray bows. In the wharf-houses, near at hand, men were patching old sails and stitching new
