It was winter-time.

All the summer-days at Enderley were gone, "like a dream when one awaketh." Of her who had been the beautiful centre of the dream we had never heard nor spoken since.
John and I were walking together along the road towards the Mythe; we could just see the frosty sunset reflected on the windows of the Mythe House, now closed for months, the family being away.

The meadows alongside, where the Avon had overflowed and frozen, were a popular skating-ground: and the road was alive with lookers-on of every class.
All Norton Bury seemed abroad; and half Norton Bury exchanged salutations with my companion, till I was amused to notice how large John's acquaintance had grown.
Among the rest there overtook us a little elderly lady, as prim and neat as an old maid, and as bright-looking as a happy matron.

I saw at once who it was--Mrs.Jessop, our good doctor's new wife, and old love: whom he had lately brought home, to the great amazement and curiosity of Norton Bury.
"She seems to like you very much," I said; as, after a cordial greeting, which John returned rather formally, she trotted on.
"They were both very kind to me in London, last month, as I think I told you." "Ay!" It was one of the few things he had mentioned about that same London journey, for he had grown into a painful habit of silence now.
Yet I dreaded to break it, lest any wounds rankling beneath might thereby be caused to smart once more.

And our love to one another was too faithful for a little reserve to have power to influence it in any way.
We came once more upon the old lady, watching the skaters.