he uneven ground sloped downwards to the south,
and through the manifold branches of the undergrowth of budding hazels
the sea lay deeply blue, far away. The primroses were everywhere among
the trees. A winding side path beckoned to her. She walked a few steps
along it, and came suddenly upon a clearing in the coppice.

She stood still, dazed.

The primroses had taken it for their own, had laid tender hold upon that
little space, cleared and forgotten in the heart of the wood.

Young shoots of hazel and ash pricked up here and there from ivy-grown
stumps, moss gleamed where it could, through the flood of primroses. The
wild green of the mercury, holding its strong shield to the sun, the
violets, and the virgin white of the anemones were drowned in the uneven
waves and billows and shallows of that sea of primroses. They who come
in meekness year by year to roadside hedgerow and homely meadow had come
in power. The meek had inherited the earth.

The light wind impotently came, and vainly went. Overhead a lark sang
and sang in the blue. But none heeded them. The wind and the song were
but a shadow and an echo. They that are the very core of spring hung
forgotten on her garments' fringe. All the passion of the world was
gathered into the still, upturned faces of the primroses, glowing with a
pale light from within. All the love that ever had been, or could be,
all rapture of aspiration and service and self-surrender were mirrored
there.

* * * * *

Magdalen wept for Fay, as once in bygone years she had wept for Everard:
as perhaps some woman of Palestine may have wept when Jesus of Nazareth
passed by, speaking as never man spake, and her lover went with him a
little way and then turned back.

* * * * *

"There is no sorrow," said the primroses. "There is neither sorrow nor
sin. You are of one blood with us. You have come through into light, as
we have done, and those others are coming, too. There is no sorrow, only
a little pressure through the brown earth. There is no sin, only a
little waking and stirring in the dark. Why then grieve, oh little
faith! They are all waking and coming. For the Hand that made us made
them. The Whisper that waked us, wakes them. The Sun that draws us,
draws them. The Sun will have us come."

* * * * *

Fay had already passed by that way, had picked a few primroses, and had
gone on. _Was she