Early last month when she arrived, late one afternoon, a chill wind was blowing a gale out of the east. The clouds hovered above the harbor like dark birds of prey. A few wild geese muttered with shrill voices among themselves; debating whether to stay or go. Later the rain came, slanting, with an edge. Inside the little cabin the drops knifed against the window with a hollow, drumming sound. In such a storm the bell sounded, there was the clatter of casting off, a seaman's voice rasped somewhere down by the shore. . . .

But when she arose this morning there was a soft tint over the quiet waves to the cast. To the west, toward the mainland, the hills stood out clear said fainaly blue. There was no movement in the air. Breathing it was like walking through a field of violets, the sweetness hardened a little with the salty smell of the sea.

At breakfast time she found the sun had painted a pale glow over the downs and the sea moved in a light that somehow was more like silver than gold. But those rolling downs! Nowhere call there by another green quite like their shade in late May. A pastel tint, they lay, deepening the bollows to a hunter emerald. So she made garden throughout the morning, busy with tulip and dahlia tubers, hollybook plants to draw the bees, and the bitter tansy. The grocery boy came by with news of a herring run down at the Gut. He sniffed. "Seems like it's spring, I guess." "Ayea," game her noncommittal assent from, the kitchen door. . . .

But it was spring. It was still spring late in the afternoon after the sunlight grew even paler and a slightly ribald wind swung in from the sea. The waves piled in on the tide, foamy against the rocks. She walked over the gray-green downs to the bluff. One by one the lobster men putted in toward the harbor in a single snaky line. Later the sim thinned out into a crimson wash in the west. A slight wispy fog made up. As she walked homeward along the shore around the harbor, a moon began to rise. It appeared diffused through the misty, foggy veil. Off, a little to itself, a new sloop was anchored. It rocked gently in the wash, its spar swaying a little. Above it hung a single faint star.

"A spring star," she said, knowing there was no such hing but liking the sound of it. And there suddenly, she ached with yearning for him.

And he? He raises his tired head from the book. Outside a vague fragrance hangs in the wind as it eddies up from the south. A few puddles still nestle among the cobblestones--like the last salty drops on a wind-dried body. Tonight down by the river--a hundred rivers--the earth will remember how to spring again. Somewhere the sun will shine, and great clouds trundle away or crumble in the blue like fallen ramparts. Somewhere a housewife will wipe her red hands upon her apron and smile down at the first bewildering crocus. Along Marlborough Street the neat old gentlemen will have belatedly hung up their Chesterfields and derbies. Somewhere, yes. But here? Here there is a terrifying notice posted. So swivel your eyes and your thoughts back to this book, Vag. The notice say: "Regular meetings in all courses will conclude on May 31."

But even as his dutiful eye shuttles back and forth through the blurred, meaningless words of the paragraph, he is with her--somewhere.