The country was yet bare; the trees had no leaves, no
nests, no secrets; but she could see the sap running into the branches,
making them dark red, scarlet, or yellow as rods of gold. Higher up, the
pines, always green, took her into their shade; into their calm spirit
of unchangeableness, their equal light, their keen aromatic air. Then
came the bare fell, and the raw north wind, and the low gray house,
stretching itself under the leafless, outspreading limbs of the
sycamores.
In the valley, there had been many wild flowers,--tufts of violets and
early primroses,--and even at Up-Hill the blackthorn's stiff boughs were
covered with tiny white buds, and here and there an open blossom. Ducie
was in the garden at work; and as Charlotte crossed the steps in its
stone wall she lifted her head, and saw her. Their meeting was free from
all demonstration; only a smile, and a word or two of welcome, and yet
how conscious of affection! How satisfied both women were! Ducie went on
with her task, and Charlotte stood by her side, and watched her drop the
brown seeds into the damp, rich earth; watched her clip the box-borders,
and loosen the soil about the springing crocus bulbs. Here and there
tufts of snowdrops were in full bloom,--white, frail bells, looking as
if they had known only cheerless hours and cold sunbeams, and wept and
shrank and feared through them.
As they went into the house, Ducie gathered a few; but at the
threshhold, Charlotte turned, and saw them in her hand.
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