then into silence far up under the maples of Lover’s Lane Anne stood under the
willows, tasting the poignant sweetness of life when some great dread has been
removed from it. The morning was a cup filled with mist and glamor. In the
corner near her was a rich surprise of new-blown, crystal-dewed roses. The trills
and trickles of song from the birds in the big tree above her seemed in perfect
accord with her mood. A sentence from a very old, very true, very wonderful
Book came to her lips,
“Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.”