The weather was moderating fast that morning.

The sun had the warmth of spring, and the old man stood in a shower of rainbow drops from the melting icicles on the eaves.

He handed her a letter, backed clumsily and apologetically from under the drops, then retreated carefully down the slippery path, his clumsy old joints jolting.
Madelon, back in the kitchen, stood for a second looking at the letter.

Then she opened it, and read the message written in Lot Gordon's strange poetic style: "Madelon,--The rose waits in the garden for her lover, because he has wings and she has none.

But had the rose wings and her lover none, then would she leave her garden and fly to him with her honey in her heart, for love must be found.
"Lot Gordon." Enough strength of New England blood Madelon had to feel towards Lot a new impulse of scorn that he should write her thus, instead of bidding her come, simply, like a man, displaying his power over her that they both knew.
Small store of honey did she bear in her heart when she set out to obey Lot's call.