True sympathy is possible only when the season of one soul accords with that of another, or else when memory, divinely tender, brings back a vivid, scarlet hour out of grey, forgotten days, to enable us to share, with another, his own full measure of sorrow or of joy.

Ah, but the world was awake at last!  Javelin-like, across a field of melting snow, went a flash of blue wings, and in Madame Francesca’s own garden a robin piped his cheery strain upon the topmost bough of a dripping tree.

The woman, too, was awake, in every fibre of body and soul.  Even her finger-tips seemed sentient and alive; her heart was strangely lifted, as though by imprisoned wings.  She had no doubt of the ultimate hour, when he would know also, yet, half-afraid, she shrank from it, as she would not have shrunk from pain.

Madame had once remarked that civilisation must have begun not earlier than nine in the morning, or later than noon.  She had a horror of the early breakfast, when the family, cold, but clean, gathers itself around the board which only last night was festive and strives valiantly to be pleasant.  It was almost an axiom with her that human, friendly conversation was not possible before nine in the morning.

So, as there was no one else to be pleased, the three women breakfasted when and where they chose.  If Rose preferred to robe herself immaculately in white linen and have her coffee in the dining-room at seven, she was at liberty to do so.  If she wanted it in her own room, at ten, that also was easily managed, but this was the only “movable feast” Madame would permit.  Luncheon and dinner went precisely by tae clock, year in and year out.

Too happy to sleep and yearning to be outdoors, Rose dressed quietly and tiptoed down-stairs.  She smiled whimsically as the heavy front door slammed behind her, wondering if it would wake the others and if they, too, would know that it was Spring.

Tips of green showed now and then where the bulbs were planted, and, down in the wild garden, when she brushed aside the snow, Rose found a blushing hepatica in full bloom.  “How indiscreet,” she thought, then added, to herself, “but what sublime courage it must take to blossom now!”

The plump robin, whose winter had evidently been pleasant, hopped about the garden after her, occasionally seeking shelter on the lower bough of a tree if she turned, or came too near.  “Don’t be afraid,” she called, aloud, then laughed, as with a farewell chirp and a flutter of wings, the robin took himself beyond the reach of further conversational liberties.

Her pulses leaped with abundant life; the wet road lured her eager feet.  She went out, leaving the gate open, and turned toward the woods, where a flock of wild geese, breasting the chill winds far above the river, was steadily cleaving a passage to the friendly North.

When she reached the woods, where the white birches stood like shy dryads among the oaks, she heard once more the robin’s flutelike call.  It was answered by another, exactly upon the same notes, yet wholly different as to quality.  Presently, among the trees, she caught a glimpse of a tall man, and she paused for an instant, frightened.  Then her heart leaped and her cheeks burned, as she saw who it was.