Suddenly his mellow pipe fluted out over the grove.  Winsome listened as she had never listened before.  Why had it become so strangely sweet to listen to the simple sounds?  Why did the rich Tyrian dye of the dawn touch her cheek and flush the flowering floss of her silken hair?  A thrush from the single laurel at the gate told her: 

“There—­there—­there—­” he sang,
“Can’t you see, can’t you see, can’t you see it? 
Love is the secret, the secret! 
Could you but know it, did you but show it! 
Hear me! hear me! hear me! 
Down in the forest I loved her! 
Sweet, sweet, sweet! 
Would you but listen,
I would love you! 
All is sweet and pure and good! 
Twilight and morning dew,
I love it, I love it,
Do you, do you, do you?”

This was the thrush’s love-song.  Now it was light enough for
Winsome to read hers by the red light of the midsummer’s dawn. 
This was Ralph’s Greek exercise: 

“Sweet mouth, red lips, broad unwrinkled brow,
Sworn troth, woven hands, holy marriage vow,
Unto us make answer, what is wanting now? 
Love, love, love, the whiteness of the snow;
Love, love, love, and the days of long ago.

  “Broad lands, bright sun, as it was of old;
  Red wine, loud mirth, gleaming of the gold;
  Something yet a-wanting—­how shall it be told? 
     Love, love, love, the whiteness of the snow;
     Love, love, love, and the days of long ago.

  “Large heart, true love, service void of sound,
  Life-trust, death-trust, here on Scottish ground,
  As in olden story, surely I have found—­
     Love, love, love, the whiteness of the snow,
     Love, love, love, and the days of long ago.”

The thrush had ceased singing while Winsome read.  It was another voice which she heard—­the first authentic call of the springtime for her.  It coursed through her blood.  It quickened her pulse.  It enlarged the pupil of her eye till the clear germander blue of the iris grew moist and dark.  It was a song for her heart, and hers alone.  She felt it, though no more than a leaf blown to her by chance winds.  It might have been written for any other, only she knew that it was not.  Ralph Peden had said nothing.  The poem certainly did not suggest a student of divinity in the Kirk of the Marrow.  There were a thousand objections—­a thousand reasons—­ every one valid, against such a thing.  But love that laughs at locksmiths is equally contemptuous of logic.  It was hers, hers, and hers alone.  A breath from Love’s wing as he passed came again to Winsome.  The blackbird was silent, but a thrush this time broke in with his jubilant love-song, while Winsome, with her love-song laid against a dewy cheek, paused to listen with a beating heart and a new comprehension: