It made no difference, that as they went on, this April day changed from rain and mist to the most brilliant sunshine.  The mists rolled away, down the river and along the gulleys of the mountains; the clouds scattered from off the blue sky, which looked down clear, fair, and soft, as if Mirza’s bridge were never under it.  The little puddles of water sparkled in the sunshine and reflected the blue; the roads made haste to dry; the softest of spring airs wafted down from the hill-sides a spicy remembrance of budding shoots and the drawn-out sweetness of pine and fir and hemlock and cedar.  The day grew sultrily warm.  But though sunlight and spring winds carried their tokens to memory’s gates and left them there, they were taken no note of at the time, by one traveller, and the other had no mental apparatus fine enough to gather them up.

He had feeling or delicacy enough of another kind, however, to keep him quiet.  He sometimes looked at Winthrop; never spoke to him.  Almost never; if he spoke at all, it was in some aside or counsel-taking with himself about the weather, the way, or the prospect and management of the farming along the river.  They stopped only to bait or to rest their horses; even at those times Mr. Underhill restrained himself not only from talking to Winthrop but from talking before him; and except when his companion was at a distance, kept as quiet as he.  Winthrop asked no questions.

The road grew hilly, and in some places rough, trying to the horses; and by the time they were fairly among the mountain land that stood down far south from Wut-a-qut-o, the sun was nearing the fair broken horizon line of the western shore.  The miles were long now, when they were no longer many; the road was more and more steep and difficult; the horses weary.  The sun travelled faster than they did.  A gentler sunlight never lay in spring-time upon those hills and river; it made the bitter turmoil and dread of the way seem the more harsh and ungentle.  Their last stopping-place was at Cowslip’s Mill —­ on the spot where seven years before, Winthrop had met the stage-coach and its consignment of ladies.

“The horses must have a minute here —­ and a bite,” said Mr. Underhill letting himself slowly down from his beast; —­ “lose no time by it.”

For a change of posture Winthrop threw himself off, and stood leaning on the saddle, while his travelling companion and Mr. Cowslip came up the rise bringing water and food to the horses.  No more than a grave nod was exchanged between Winthrop and his old neighbour; neither said one word; and as soon as the buckets were empty the travellers were on their way again.