V

BACK TO THE HILLS

Winter drew a gray veil over the
mountains, wove into it tiny
jewels of frost and turned it many times
into a mask of snow, before spring broke
again among them and in Marston's
impatient heart. No spring had ever been
like that to him. The coming of young
leaves and flowers and bird-song meant but
one joy for the hills to him--the Blight
was coming back to them. All those weary
waiting months he had clung grimly to his
work. He must have heard from her
sometimes, else I think he would have gone
to her; but I knew the Blight's pen was
reluctant and casual for anybody, and,
moreover, she was having a strenuous winter at
home. That he knew as well, for he took
one paper, at least, that he might simply
read her name. He saw accounts of her
many social doings as well, and ate his
heart out as lovers have done for all time
gone and will do for all time to come.