In the morning it was another day, and the past was as if it were not.
May the first dawned ideally springlike, warm, fresh, fragrant, with birds singing, sky a clear blue, and trees budding green and white.
Lane yielded to an impulse that had grown stronger of late.

His steps drew him to the little drab house where Mel Iden lived with her aunt.
On the way, which led past a hedge, Lane gathered a bunch of violets.
"'In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,'" he mused.

"It's good, even for _me_, to be alive this morning....

These violets, the birds, the fresh smells, the bursting green! Oh, well, regrets are idle.

But just to think--I had to go through all I've known--right down to this moment--to realize how stingingly sweet life is...." Mel answered his knock, and sight of her face seemed to lift his heart with an unwonted throb.