The middle day of March had been dreary all over England—dreariest of all, perhaps, in London. Great blasts had blown under a sky whose miles-thick vault of clouds they never touched, but instead hunted and drove and dashed earth clouds of dust into all unwelcoming places, throats and eyes included. Now and then a few drops would fall on the stones as if the day’s fierce misery were about to yield to sadness. But it did not so yield. Up rose again a great blundering gust, and repentance was lost in rage. The sun went down on its wrath, and its night was tempestuous.

But the next morning rose bright and glad, looking as if it would make up for its father’s wildness by a gentler treatment of the world. The wind was still high, but the hate seemed to have gone out of it. It swept huge clouds across the sky, never granting a pause of motion. But the sky was blue and the clouds were white, and the dungeon-vault of the world was broken up and being carried away.

Everything in the room stood ready when the Raymounts assembled for breakfast—the fire in the hearth, crocuses in a vase on the table. Mr. Raymount was very silent, almost gloomy. Mrs. Raymount’s face, in consequence, was a shade less peaceful. There was nothing the matter, only he had not yet learned to radiate. It is hard for some natures to let their light shine. Mr. Raymount had some light, but he let it shine mostly in reviews, not much at home.

The children were rosy, fresh from their baths, and ready to eat like breakfast-loving English. Cornelius was half of his breakfast ahead of the rest, for he had daily to endure the hardship of being at the bank by nine o’clock, and made the best of it by claiming immunity from the niceties of the breakfast table. Never did he lose a moment in helping anybody. Even little Saffy had to stretch out a very long arm after the butter without his even looking up—except indeed it happened to cross his plate, when he would sharply rebuke her breach of manners. Mark would sooner have gone without salt for his egg than ask Corney to pass it.

This morning the pale boy sat staring at the crocuses.

“Why don’t you eat your breakfast, Mark, dear?” said his mother.

“I’m not hungry, mama,” he answered.

The mother looked at him a little anxiously. He was not a very vigorous boy physically. But unlike his father’s, his light was almost always shining, making the faces about him shine.

After a few minutes unconsciously staring at the crocuses, he said,

“I can’t imagine how they come.”

“They grow!” said Saffy.

“Didn’t you see Hester make the paper flowers for her party?” added their father, willing to set them thinking.