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drops had spread like waves of that white fall whose name they bear. On either side was a straight row of yews, "Deuil de l'été, et parure de l'hiver;" and this ended in a little wilderness, where the lithe and scented shrubs were placed in careless yet graceful profusion. As yet, it was rather the promise of spring than spring itself. A faint green indicated the coming foliage; though, save on the early hawthorn, scarce one full-formed leaf had expanded. But the air was sweet with thousands of violets, for the turf was filled with them; and even their large and shadowy leaves could not hide the azure multitudes that seemed to have caught the shadow of noon's bluest sky. In the midst was a small clear pool, which gave back the first sunshine of the morning, and reflected the rising of the earliest star. It was now silvered over by the tremulous line of light which came direct from the young moon, as if it were a love-message, illuminating the dark but clear waters, like the one touch of poetry to be found in every human heart. A few daffodils grew on the further side, their pale beauty falling white upon the shadow, the slender stalk bending over its own reflection in vain desire. A few more sunny days, a few more moonlight evenings, and it will repeat its own sweet deceit, and strive in vain to reach its beloved