And kissed love's lips as he lay,
And the watchers, ghostly and gray,
Sped from his pillow away.
"And his eyes at the dawn grew bright
And his lips waxed ruddy as light:
Sorrow may reign for a night,
But day shall bring back delight."
—Swinburne.
The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to reassert his power; but now at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above his grave the sweet, brave young grasses are springing, the myriad flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and brook, and upland.
It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness.