tentatively, his clear song--a song to bring tears by its golden
security of joy in a world where nothing is secure.

The old madness surged in upon Edward more strongly as the light
grew, and he tried to read the Gospel of St. John (his favourite),
but the words left no trace on his mind. Hazel was there, and like
a scarlet-berried rowan on the sky she held the gaze by the perfection
of the picture she made. The bent of Edward's mind and upbringing was
set against the rush of his wishes and of circumstance. She had said,
'The first that came,' and he was sure that in her state of dark
superstition she would hold by her vow. Suppose some other--some
farm-hand, who would never see the real Hazel--should have been thinking
over the matter, and should go to-day and should be the first? It was
just how things happened. And then his flower would be gone, and the
other man would never know it was a flower. He worked himself into such
a fever that he could not rest, but got up and went out into the lively
air, and saw the sun come lingeringly through aery meadows of pale
green and primrose. He saw the ice slip from the bright pointed lilac
buds, and sheep browsing the frosty grass, and going to and fro in the
unreserved way that animals have in the early hours before the
restraint of human society is imposed on them. He saw, yet noticed
nothing, until a long scarlet bar of cloud reminded him of Hazel by its
vividness, and he found a violet by the graveyard gate.

'Little Hazel!' he whispered. He pondered on the future, and tried to
imagine such an early walk as this with Hazel by his side, and could
not for the glory of it. Then he reasoned with himself. This wild haste
was not right, perhaps. He ought to wait. But that vow! That foolish,
childish vow!