ouched with sorrow, and a sense of being, as it were,
abandoned. And the weather growing quite beautiful, and so mild that the
trees were budding, and the cattle full of happiness, I could not but
think of the difference between the world of to-day and the world of
this day twelvemonth. Then all was howling desolation, all the earth
blocked up with snow, and all the air with barbs of ice as small
as splintered needles, yet glittering, in and out, like stars, and
gathering so upon a man (if long he stayed among them) that they began
to weigh him down to sleepiness and frozen death. Not a sign of life
was moving, nor was any change of view; unless the wild wind struck the
crest of some cold drift, and bowed it.

Now, on the other hand, all was good. The open palm of spring was laid
upon the yielding of the hills; and each particular valley seemed to be
the glove for a finger. And although the sun was low, and dipping in the
western clouds, the gray light of the sea came up, and took, and taking,
told the special tone of everything. All this lay upon my heart, without
a word of thinking, spreading light and shadow there, and the soft
delight of sadness. Nevertheless, I would it were the savage snow around
me, and the piping of the restless winds, and the death of everything.
For in those days I had Lorna.

Then I thought of promise fair; such as glowed around me, where the
red rocks held the sun, when he was departed; and the distant crags
endeavoured to retain his memory. But as evening spread across them,
shading with a silent fold, all the colour stole away; all remembrance
waned and died.

"So it has been with love," I thought, "and with simple truth and
warmth. The maid has chosen the glittering stars, instead of the plain
daylight."

Nevertheless I would not give in, although in deep despondency
(especially when I passed the place where my dear father had fought in
vain), and I tried to see things right and then judge aright about them.
This, however, was more easy to attempt than to achieve; and by the time
I came down the hill, I was none the wiser. Only I could tell my mother
that the King was dead for sure; and she would have tried to cry, but
for thought of her mourning.

There was not a moment for lamenting. All the mourning must be ready (if
we cared to beat the Snowes) in eight-and-forty hours: and, although
it was Sunday night, mother now feeling sure of the thing, sat up with
Lizzie, cutting patterns,