Past the mist of tears in which he once was shrouded, the face of the Grey Angel is seen to be wondrously kind.  By his mysterious alchemy, he has crystallised the doubtful waters, which once were in the cup of Life and Love, into a jewel which has no flaw.  He has kept the child forever a child, caught the maiden at the noon of her beauty to enshrine her thus for always in the heart that loved her most; made the true and loving comrade a comrade always, though on the highways of the vast Unknown.

It is seen now that the road has many windings and that, unconsciously, the wayfarer has turned back.  Eagerly the trembling hands reach forward to take the white poppies, and the tired eyes close as though the silken petals had already fluttered downward on the lids, for, radiant past all believing, the Grey Angel still holds the Best Beloved by the hand, and the roads that long ago had forked in darkness, have come together, in more than mortal dawn, at the selfsame place.

Upon the beauty of the crystalline March morning, the memory of the Winter sorrow still lay.  The bare, brown earth was not wholly hidden by the mantle of sleet and snow, yet there was some intangible Easter close at hand.  Miss Evelina felt it, stricken though she was.

From a distant thicket came a robin’s cheery call, a glimmer of blue wings flashed across the desolate garden, a south wind stirred the bending, icy branches to a tinkling music, and she knew that Spring had come to all but her.

Some indefinite impulse sent her outdoors.  Closely veiled, she started off down the road, looking neither to the right nor the left.  Miss Hitty saw her pass, but graciously forbore to call to her; Araminta looked up enquiringly from her sewing, but the question died on her lips.

Down through the village she went, across the tracks, and up to the river road.  It had been a favourite walk of hers in her girlhood.  Then she had gone with a quick, light step; now she went slowly, like one grown old.

Yet, all unconsciously, life was quickening in her pulses; the old magic of Spring was stirring in her, too.  Dark and deep, the waters of the river rolled dreamily by, waiting for the impulse which should send the shallows singing to the sea, and stir the depths to a low, murmurous symphony.

Upon the left, as she walked, the road was bordered with elms and maples, stretching far back to the hills.  The woods were full of unsuspected ravines and hollows, queer winding paths, great rocks, and tiny streams.  The children had called it the enchanted forest, and played that a fairy prince and princess dwelt therein.

The childhood memories came back to Evelina with a pang.  She stopped to wipe away the tears beneath her veil, to choke back a sob that tightened her throat.  Suddenly, she felt a presentiment of oncoming evil, a rushing destiny that could not be swerved aside.  Frightened, she turned to go back; then stopped again.