love in a maiden's eyes, and sees the timid appealing return of the
universal passion, the world for those two is just as certainly created
as it was on the first morning, in all its color, odor, song, freshness,
promise. This is the central mystery of life.

Unconsciously to herself, Margaret had worked this miracle. Never before
did the little town look so bright; never before was there exactly such a
color on the hills-sentiment is so pale compared with love; never before
did her home appear so sweet; never before was there such a fine ecstasy
in the coming of spring.

For all this, home-coming, after the first excitement of arrival is over,
is apt to be dull. The mind is so occupied with other emotions that the
friends even seem a little commonplace and unresponsive, and the routine
is tame. Out of such a whirl of new experiences to return and find that
nothing has happened; that the old duties and responsibilities are
waiting! Margaret had eagerly leaped from the carriage to throw herself
into her aunt's arms-what a sweet welcome it is, that of kin!--and yet
almost before the greeting was over she felt alone. There was that in the
affectionate calmness of Miss Forsythe that seemed to chill the glow and
fever of passion in her new world. And she had nothing to tell.
Everything had changed, and she must behave as if nothing had happened.
She must take up her old life--the interests of the neighborhood. Even
the little circle of people she loved appeared distant from her at the
moment; impossible it seemed to bring them into the rushing current of
her life. Their joy in getting her back again she could not doubt, nor
the personal affection with which she was welcomed. But was the New
England atmosphere a little cold? What was the flavor she missed in it
all? The next day a letter came. The excuse for it was the return of a
fan which Mr. Henderson had carried off in his pocket from the opera.
What a wonderful letter it was--his handwriting, the first note from him!
Miss Forsythe saw in it only politeness. For Margaret it outweighed the
town of Brandon. It lay in her lap as she sat at her chamber window
looking out over the landscape, which was beginning to be flushed with a
pale green. There was a robin on the lawn, and a blackbird singing in the
pine. "Go not, happy day," she said, with tears in her eyes. She took up
the brief letter and read it again. Was he really hers, "truly"? And she
answered the letter, swiftly