garde was drifting away from him. His interests were not her interests. He was separated from her by more than the sea which rolled between them.
For Hildegarde was in France!
He had her latest letter in his pocket. He was on his way to the farm to read it to the old aunts. Two things had come to be a part of his week-ends at home—supper on Saturday night at the farm, and a pilgrimage at sunset to the hill where he had sat with Hildegarde.
Tonight, from that hilltop, looking towards the south, he had seen the geese—faint as smoke at first; and now above him, flying low under the clouds, their big bodies tilted against the streaming air-currents.
Yet, though the wind blew cold, spring was on the way. The snow was gone, below him in the valley a row of small peach trees flaunted their pink bloom, and almost under his hand, in a sheltered place, violets were springing up.
He plucked three of the violets to send to Hildegarde. He remembered an old song about "love, and truth and valor." That was what the three blue flowers would say to her. . . .
Then, suddenly he cast them aside. What would three violets mean to Hildegarde, this new Hildegarde? What was it she had said in her last letter; "Bob buys great bunches of violets. He calls me 'Violetta', and writes verses about me."
That sort of thing! How could he compete!
The geese had gone and the sun had set in a threatening purple haze. Rain before morning. He rose and standing there in the dim light tried to sum-
