was living over again, with an ineffaced and ineffaceable 
vividness, certain days and certain hours burned into her 
memory with the red-hot iron of affliction. The  
had healed over, but the scars remained. For years she 
had never seen yellow November fogs without recalling 
the day when Arthur sailed ; nor cowslips, but she remem- 
bered having a bunch of them in her hand when she got 
the letter telling her of his death, just as he was "getting 
up May Hill," as they often say of consumptive people. 
And for years  oh, how many years it seemed !  after that 
day spring days had given her a ciniel  ;* as if the 
world had all come alive again, and Arthur was dead. 

To-day, even though it was the very anniversary of his 
death, she felt differently. There came back into her  
that long-forgotten sense of spring, which always used to 
come with the primroses and cowslips, when Arthur and 
she played together among them. The world Tiad come 
alive again, and Arthur had come alive too, but more as 
when he was a little boy and her playfellow than her 
lover. A strange kind of  entered her mind  a won- 
der what he was like now  boy, or man, or angel ; and 
what he