Silently, with strange, beating hearts and fore-glimmer of beauty and wonder and loveliness, they walked west to the Park, and entered that Crystal Palace. For every branch, every twig, every stone and rail had its pendent ice and icicle, and the strong sun smote the world with flakes of flame. The trees were showers of rainbow-flashing glory; now and then an icicle dropped like a dart of fire, and the broad lawns were sheets of dazzle. Earth was glittering, fresh, new, decked out in unimaginable jewels under the vast and melting blue skies. The day was tender and clear and vigorous, tingling with life.
They followed the curve of the walk, they crossed the roadway, they climbed the hill, they walked the winding path of the Ramble.
"You remember that morning?" murmured Joe, a music waking in his heart, his pulses thronged with a new beauty.
"Remember it?" Myra whispered. "Yes, Joe, I remember it."
"That is the very bench we sat on."
"That is the bench."
"And that is the little pond."
"That is the little pond."
"And this is the spot."
"This is the spot."