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Oh, what a change it was from sunny Florida to England, just how
both Edith and Victor shivered, arrived at the last stage of their
journey, they looked out upon the snow-clad hills and leafless
trees which fitted out by bare and brown against the winter sky.
West Shannondale! the brakeman shouted, and Edith drew her furs
around her, for in a few moments more their own station would be
reached.

"The river is frozen; it must be very cold," said Victor, pointing
to the blue-black stream; skimmered over with a thin coat of ice.

"Yes, very, very cold," and Edith felt the meaning of the word in
more senses than one.

Why wasn't she glad to be home again? Why did her thoughts cling
so to distant Sunnybank, or her heart die within her as waymark
after waymark told her Collingwood was near? Alas! she was not a
loving, eager bride elect, returning to the arms of her beloved,
but a shrinking, hopeless, desolate woman, going back to meet the
destiny she dared not avoid. The change was all in herself, for
the day was no colder, the clouds no greyer, the setting sun no
paler than New England wintry days and clouds and suns are wont to
be. Collingwood was just the same, and its massive walls rose as
proudly amid the dark evergreens around it as they had done in
times gone by, when to the little orphan it seemed a second
Paradise. Away to the right lay Grassy Spring, the twilight
shadows gathering around it, piles of snow resting on its roof,
and a thin wreath of smoke curling from a single chimney in the
rear.