"Good morning, Miss Payne," he said, lifting his hat with his usual grace. "I am happy to know that we have one taste in common—a love of nature in this disguise. Is not the wintry world beautiful?"
"Beautiful, indeed," replied Madeline, resuming her walk homeward. "The trees are fairy palaces. It is lovelier than Summer, is it not?"
"It is very lovely," gazing not at the trees but down into her face, "but—so cold."
She understood his meaning and replied, calmly: "Cold? Yes; it is not Summer."
"No," he assented, with a sad intonation, "it is not Summer. Miss Payne, Madeline, will it ever be Summer again?"
Madeline looked up and about her, and smiled as she did so. "Yes," she replied, "it will be Summer—soon."
He had turned and retraced his steps at her side. She was walking swiftly again, and for some time neither spoke. When they entered the grounds of the manor, he said, half deprecatingly:
"Madeline, may I ask this one question?"
"Yes," quietly.
"I saw you pause under that tree and look about you," he said, slowly; "was it because you thought of other days, and of me?"