There were buttercups and violets in it too as he sped along in the early morning of an unforgotten Easter Sunday, drawn, so he had shamelessly told his Miller’s Daughter, by antiquarian passion to visit the famous old parish church near which Alice was at school.  Antiquarian passion!  Well, certainly it is an antiquarian passion now.

But then—­how his heart beat! how his eyes shone as with burning kohl!  That there was anything to be ashamed of in this stolen ride never even occurred to him.  And perhaps there was little wrong in it, after all.  Perhaps, when the secrets of all hearts are revealed, it will come out that the Miller’s Daughter took the opportunity to meet Narcissus’ understudy,—­who can tell?

But the wonderful fresh morning-scented air was a delicious fact beyond dispute.  That was sincere.  Ah, there used to be real mornings then!—­not merely interrupted nights.

And it was the Easter-morning of romance.  There was a sweet passionate Sabbath-feeling everywhere.  Sabbath-bells, and Sabbath-birds, and Sabbath-flowers.  There was even a feeling of restful Sabbath-cheer about the old inn, where, at last, entering with much awe the village where Alice nightly slept—­clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, —­Narcissus provided for the demands of romance by a hearty country breakfast.  A manna of blessing seemed to lie thick upon every thing.  The very ham and eggs seemed as if they had been blessed by the Pope.

It was yet an hour to church-time, an hour usually one of spiteful alacrity; but this morning, it seemed, in defiance of the clock, cruelly unpunctual.  After breakfast, Narcissus strolled about the town, and inquired the way to Miss Curlpaper’s school.  It stood outside the little town.  It was pointed out to him in the distance, across billowy clouds of pear and apple-blossom, making the hollow in which the town nestled seem a vast pot-pourri jar, overflowing with newly gathered rose-leaves.

Had the Miller’s Daughter been able to watch his movements, she would have remarked that his antiquarian ardour drew him not to the church, but to a sombre many-windowed house upon the hill.

Narcissus reconnoitred the prison-like edifice from behind a hedge, then summoned courage to walk past with slow nonchalance.  All was as dead and dull as though Alice was not there.  Yet somewhere within those prison-walls her young beauty was dressing itself to meet the spring.  Perhaps, in delicious linen, soft and white, she was dashing cool water about her rosebud face, or, flushed with exhilaration, was pinning up the golden fleeces of her hair.  Perhaps she was eating wonderful bacon and eggs!  Could she be thinking of him?  She little knew how near he was to her.  He had not written of his coming.  Letters at Miss Curlpaper’s had to pass an inspection much more rigorous than the Customs, but still smuggling was not unknown.  For success, however, carefully laid plans and regular dates were necessary, and Narcissus’ visit had fallen between the dates.