mon the gracious presence which had so often come to comfort him. But tonight it did not come. It was as if Hildegarde, in this new mood, had cast off the last link which bound her to her mother. And the shade of Elizabeth Musgrove had no brave words for the man who loved her daughter.
When he reached the farm, a few crocuses shone like dim stars along the borders of the stone walk. The windows of the house were open, and as Crispin entered the kitchen, he was aware of the difference it made. The dark rooms seemed, even on this gray day, to gather to themselves something of the glamour of the world's awakening.
The two old ladies welcomed him eagerly. This visit from him had become the best thing in their week. When it happened that he could not come they had a sense of frustration, and found it hard to wait until another seven days had passed.
They had a good supper ready for him, and were concerned when they found he had no appetite. They missed, too, the shining quality which had conquered their imaginations.
Aunt Catherine asked anxiously, "Aren't you well?"
"Oh, yes. Why?"
"You didn't eat your pudding."
"It is delicious. But I'm not hungry." He pushed his plate away. "I have a letter from Hildegarde. May I read it?"
Aunt Catherine stood up. "We might as well go in the other room where the chairs are comfortable."
As they went into the living-room there was no light
