sp of
indifference, of ridicule! If she could only have them again, spoken,
perhaps, but unheard!

Yet here, at least, where the enterprising grass grew in the rugged cart
track, and the branches drooped impertinently before the face of the
wayfarer, no one but herself need know that she was very near to tears.
And as she came out of the shut-in portion of the road to a stretch of
open country, where the warm light lay on the hillsides, and the air was
sweetened by the breath of pines, her depression gave way to a keen
sense of elation. She turned aside and, crossing a bit of elastic, dry
grass, climbed to the top of the stone wall and looked about her. Her
heart throbbed with confidence, doubly grateful for the previous
distrust. Her own lines came back to her; it was this that somehow,
imperfectly, but somehow, she had put into words. It was still spring, a
late New England spring, though the unseasonable warmth of the day made
it seem summer. The landscape bore the coloring of autumn rather than
that of the earlier year. The trees were red and brown and yellow in
their incipient leafage. Now and then, among the sere fields, there was
a streak of vivid green, or a mound of rich brown, freshly turned earth;
but for the most part they were bare. Here and there was the crimson of
a new maple; in the distance were the reds and brown of new, not old,
life. Only the birds sang as they never sing in autumn, a burst of
clear, joyous anticipation--the trill of the meadowlark, the "sweet,
sweet, piercing sweet" of the flashing oriole, the call of the catbird,
and the melody of the white-bosomed thrush. And here and there a
fountain of white bloom showed itself amid the sombreness of the fields,
a pear or cherry tree decked from head to foot in bridal white, like a
bit of fleecy cloud dropped from the floating masses above to the
discouraged earth; along the wayside the white stars of the anemone, the
wasteful profusion of the eyebright, and the sweet blue of the violet;
and in solemn little clusters, the curled up fronds of the ferns,
uttering a protest against longer imprisonment--let wind and sun look
out! they would uncurl to-morrow! All these things set the barely
blossomed branches, the barely clothed hillsides, at defiance. It was
the beginning, not the end, the promise, not the regret--it was life,
not death. Summer was afoot, not winter.

It was worth a longer walk, that half hour on the hillside; for it
restored, in