It kept the harbor road muddy, and chilled the evening air.

But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and Gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner.

He came up from the park, his hands full of it.
Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset with the very perfection of grace.

She was building a castle in air--a wondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in Araby's perfume, and where she reigned queen and chatelaine.

She frowned as she saw Gilbert coming through the orchard.