So spring drew near. The mill was nearly finished. One day in March a warm
south-wind "quieted the earth" after a long rain, the river began to stir,
its mail of ice to crack and heave under the sun's rays. I persuaded Jo to
take a little drive, and once in the carriage the air reanimated her; she
rested against me and talked more than I had known her for weeks.

"What a lovely day!" said she; "how balmy the air is! there is such an
expression of rest without despair, such calm expectation! I always think
of heaven such days, Sally!--they are like the long sob with which a child
finishes weeping. Only to think of never more knowing tears!--that is life
indeed!"

A keen pang pierced me at the vibration of her voice as she spoke. I
thought to soothe her a little, and said, "Heaven can be no more than
love, Jo, and we have a great deal of that on earth."

"Do we?" answered she, in a tone of grief just tipped with irony,--and
then went on: "I believe you love me, Sally. I would trust you with--my
heart, if need were. I think you love me better than any one on earth
does."

"I love you enough, dear," said I; more words would have choked me in the
utterance.

Soon we turned homeward.

"Tell John to drive down by the river," said Josephine,--"I want to see
the new mill."

"But you cannot see it from the road, Jo; the hemlocks stand between."