“Do, cousin Vida, go with me to-day, won’t you?” asked Harry, a bright boy of fourteen.  “I know a splendid place about ten miles from here, where we can get some evergreens; I want to trim up the house for Christmas just as we used to in New York State.  I’ll take the spring waggon and the ponies, and we’ll go—­you and I—­all alone, and bring home lots of greens, all cut off in short branches.”

“You forget,” his mother said, “that your cousin is not used to riding in spring waggons over rough roads, and ten miles will be a long drive for her.”

“There are some red berries there, too,” went on Harry, as if he had not heard the objections, “and moss, and long vines that the frost hasn’t found yet; besides it’s a grand day to ride.”

“You dear boy,” said Vida, “I’ll go for half of the inducements you offer.”  She was only too glad to fall in with any plan that diverted her sad thoughts.

The drive lay for a long distance through the lovely open country, the grass in many parts still green as in midsummer, and over all the perpetual sunshine of that region.  A soft golden light that even in mid-winter glorifies the commonest object; bright skies, balmy air, and her lively companion, cheered even Vida’s drooping spirits.

Arrived in the woods, Harry ran here and there with joyful enthusiasm, now climbing a tree like a squirrel, then darting into a thicket for mosses.  They loaded the waggon with green boughs and filled their basket with treasures of moss and lichens, and the gay-plumed birds flitted about with hospitable little chirps, welcoming their visitors to their bowers of green.  As each became more intent in adding to their store they became separated.  Vida was a little distance behind a low, thick growth of trees, disentangling a long vine of bitter-sweet, when she heard a voice that thrilled her very soul.  There was just one voice like that in all the world.  Trembling, she bent her head and peeped through the branches.  One swift glance and she knew him—­her husband.

A strong self-control prevented her from swooning or crying out in her great joy.  Shaking like a leaf, yet holding firmly to a tree-trunk, she gazed into the dear face.  It was paler and thinner, there were dark rings under the eyes, but the finely-curved mouth had the same calm, sweet expression that told of peace within.

How like a king among men he looked, as he stood there, his hands filled too with mosses and lichens, looking kindly on the boy and talking interestedly.  She never realised her utter folly so keenly as at this moment.  How she longed to fly to him and fall at his feet in sorrowful confession.  Two things kept her back:  no eyes must witness their first meeting, and another dreadful thought—­what if it were too late.  What if he had taken her at her word and loved another.

She had not been a woman of the world so long for naught.  She was an adept in hiding her heart far out of sight.  When Harry returned she could calmly ask him, “Whom he had found in that out-of-the-way place?”