April was in the air, as the Vagabond stood at the open window, sniffling hungrily at the smells of departing winter and newborn Spring. The soft breeze blew in from the Charles, itself as yet frozen over, with dirty gray ice, and he stretched himself slowly, thoroughly, like a cat that has just woken up. A slow smile of perfect bliss came over his face, and of a sudden he collapsed, purring, onto the sofa.

Yes, Spring was coming along, all right. It was nice to see grass again even last year's moldy brown grass, and as he slowly revolved his mind, he remembered that he had even seen a few buds this morning. Again he stretched, a long, slow stretch, and then relaxed, lying flat on his back, his eyes vaguely focussed on that happy land somewhere beyond the ceiling.

From the roseate mist that enveloped him came voices, soft voices, now merry, now serious. Visions danced before his eyes, and the Past, with all its glorious heartache, its reality and poiguaney dimmed by the soothing touch of Time, revolved slowly through his idling brain.

On an impulse he rose, and padded across the room to his desk, and drew from it a packet of letters. These he skimmed through, smiling abstractedly; at one he blushed furiously and wagged his head in self-reproof. He looked long at the picture on his desk, and then his gaze wandered guiltily to his book, now abandoned on the floor. Again he stood at the window, but this time he saw nothing. He took in great gulps of the sweet air, trying to choke himself on the scents of Spring.

"God, isn't it grand," said the Vagabond, and picked up the telephone.