There were two large tears standing in his blue eyes, and two sprang into Charlotte’s to meet them.  She clasped his hand tight, and after a minute’s silence said,—­

“I have a lover, father; the best a girl ever had.  Has he made any difference between you and me?  Only that I love you better.  You are my first love; the very first creature I remember, father.  One summer day you had me in your arms in the garden.  I recollect looking at you and knowing you.  I think it was at that moment my soul found me.”

“It was on a summer day, Charlotte?  Eh?  What?”

“And the garden was all roses, father; red with roses,—­roses full of scent.  I can smell them yet.  The sunshine, the roses, the sweet air, your face,—­I shall never, never forget that moment, father.”

“Nor I. I was a very happy man in those days, Charlotte.  Young and happy, and full of hope.  I thought my children were some new make of children.  I could not have believed then, that they would ever give me a heartache, or have one themselves.  And I had not a care.  Money was very easy with me then:  now it is middling hard to bring buckle and tongue together.”

“When Sophia is married, we can begin and save a little.  Mother and you and I can be happy without extravagances.”

“To be sure, we can; but the trouble is, my saving will be the losing of all I have to send away.  It is very hard, Charlotte, to do right at both ends.  Eh?  What?”

After this conversation, spring came on rapidly, and it was not long ere Charlotte managed to reach Up-Hill.  She had not seen Ducie for several weeks, and she was longing to hear something of Stephen.  “But if ill had come, ill would have cried out, and I would have heard tell;” she thought, as she picked her way among the stones and debris of the winter storms.  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.