It was springtime, again—the very heart of spring, with warm, mellow days, and pink clouds scuttling across the apple-green sky—the river warm and placid and rippling with good humor—fragrant breezes sweeping down Hyacinth Hill with a breath of sweetness. Cecilia gloried in the spring, Brook's first, and she was glad he was old enough to enjoy it. She took him out to the garden, and watched as he clapped his hands and cooed over the daffodils in their beds. He was almost ten months old, now, and getting to be a real beauty, which was not only Cecilia's opinion. People often stopped, when they were out together, to comment on her baby's deep dimples, and his clear brown eyes. These spring days were especially sweet for Cecilia, and she felt she must treasure them, because by next spring, Brook would have a little brother or sister running around the place. Leslie's prediction had come true—Cecilia supposed that she, too, must be developing a habit for 'kids.' She looked forward to the new arrival with delight—Marshall was positively ecstactic, and hoping for the long-awaited little girl—but all the same, she felt a little bittersweet at times. It was so sweet, with just the three of them, now—and she did wonder, at times, when her heart felt full to bursting over love for her boy, if she could possibly love another child as much?

Una had sent Brook a little blue sweater and cap, and he looked like the human incarnation of a fat, roly-poly bluebell as he crawled around his blanket, grasping with chubby hands at blades of grass, marveling with an open mouth as a flock of sparrows alighted on a branch above his head. Cecilia rescued him, just as he was about to pluck a daffodil from its stem, and place it in his mouth. He began to wail in fury at being so roundly thwarted, but Cecilia tickled him under his chin until he was giggling again.

"We don't eat flowers, little brown boy," she told him. "Flowers are our friends, Brookie."

She took him inside and fed him, and then sang him to sleep for his afternoon nap. Where the wild mountain thyme, blooms along the purple heather—will you go, laddie, go? When he was sleeping, his long lashes—so like Marshall's!—brushing his cheeks, Cecilia grabbed her purse and keys and went down to where Marshall was reading in the parlour.

"I'm just going out for a while," she said evasively. "I'll be back in time for supper."

And then before Marshall could say anything she was in the car, backing out of the driveway.

She drove to a little café in Grafton, especially chosen because she knew next to nobody there. Blythe had already arrived—was waiting at a table with a cup of coffee. Cecilia had not seen him since Brook's birth, and she was shocked to find how the months had changed him. His clothes hung loosely on him—he was such a scarecrow—and his face was creased with worry. But he broke into a smile, nonetheless, when he saw her. Cecilia ran to him and just hugged him for a long while. She had missed Blythe—missed him—missed him. And with all that was going on in the family, when he had called, she had agreed to meet him.

And she had not told Marshall. For several reasons. She was afraid he would not understand, and she was afraid of seeming disloyal to Manon, by flaunting her edict. But then—Manon had not said she might not see Blythe, had she? And also: it was nice to have a secret just between herself and Blythe again, after so many weeks of no contact with him at all. Cecilia sat, and scrutinized him with a worried look.

"How are you, Blythe?"

"I'm all right," said Blythe. "Don't look at me so concernedly, little doctor, or I might think there's something wrong with me after all."

"And Manon?"

"Better—stronger—by the day."

"But still—not ready to see me?"

"No," Blythe admitted. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, and sipped his coffee. "I've been writing again," he said, suddenly. "Cecilia—I brought you some of my poems, to read."

Cecilia took the sheaf of papers he held out to her and scrutinized the first few lines. In the interminable dusk—a scream of the nightingale—the cold, incalculable stars. She shuddered, involuntarily at the grimness of the images presented by Blythe's words. She had never known him to write of such sad, lonely things, before. "I—I'll read them," she promised, but she knew that she wouldn't—at least, not happily. Was this how Blythe felt, inside? As though the world was cold and cruel and unhappy? Her heart turned over in her chest, and she wanted very badly to reach out to him, but knew that it would offend him if she did. He was trying to pretend everything was all right, and she must not betray him. She thought hard of something to say, but found no words.

"I've brought pictures of our new relatives," she said, finally, withdrawing the snaps from her bag and passing them to Blythe. "That's Grandmother and Aunt Elsie—isn't she a dear? Don't you see the resemblance in the eyes? And those are our cousins, Bly—Lee and Louisa and Walter and Thekla Goddard. If Merry and Hannah and Gilly were there, they'd blend right in, with their red hair, don't you think? Oh, I wish you could see Cousin Leona—that's her in the next snap—she is just what I imagine Miss Cornelia would have been like, if we'd gotten a chance to know her. Plain and practical and round as a button—and good. They were very impressed to find that you were a poet, and glad to have one in the family. We'll have to go and meet them sometime."

Blythe smiled over their faces. "I'd like that," he said, handing the pictures back. "What's new with you, Cecilia?"

"Nothing," said Cecilia firmly, glad that she was wearing her jacket, and that her pregnancy was still in its early stages, and didn't really show, yet. She had wanted to tell Blythe about the baby, but couldn't. "Brook is acting as if he wants to walk. He stands up and holds onto chairs, and the coffee table, but he can't quite make himself let go yet. He says 'dada' clear as day, and he persists in calling me 'Mom,' very emphatically, like a little American! We're trying to cure him of it before it sets in for good. Nancy he calls 'Nana,' and he smiles such drooly smiles at her that I'm almost jealous."

"Nancy is still with you?"

"Yes—though I think she's getting a little tired of us—chomping at the bit. She hasn't been herself lately, and if she leaves, oh, I'll miss her. But I remind myself that it would be a good step for her—she's been in hiding with us. If she goes it will mean she is ready for the outside world, again. And Marshall just opened a store in Avonlea—did you hear?"

"I did," smiled Blythe, with none of his usual distaste at the mention of Marshall. "Aunt Di informs me that she chastises her neighbors scandalously when she hears of them frequenting any other establishment but Douglas's. But you're leaving something out, Cecilia. You needn't. I know you're going to have a baby—you told Joy, and you know she can't keep a secret to save her life."

"It wasn't a secret, exactly." Cecilia looked up at him, piteously. "I meant to tell you, Blythe. It only seemed like—like I shouldn't. Like it would be—bragging—somehow."

"Of course I am happy for you," said Blythe, stirring his spoon in his cup. But he made no move to reach out to her. He only sat very still, staring at the table, for a long while.

"Cecilia," he asked, suddenly, looking up, his eyes blazing, "Cecilia, you must help me. I—I'm so guilty. It is like a weight that presses on me every minute of the day."

"Blythe! What?"

"Manon is so unhappy—terribly unhappy—and we are unhappy together." His mouth worked and he looked like a boy again, fighting terribly hard not to cry, because he thought he shouldn't—that there was shame in it, somehow. "She isn't doing better at all. We scarcely talk. We sleep in separate rooms because—well, because. I tried, Cecilia, to be gentle with her, but it wasn't enough to erase my beastliness. When we do meet up in the hallways, or sit down at the table together, at mealtimes, I feel Manon's eyes on me, and I know she hates me for what I said, for what I did. She knows—and I know—that this is all my fault."

"Your fault? Blythe…"

"You remember what I told you, long ago," he reminded her. "That I didn't want children. When we were engaged—you did, but I didn't. Manon did—and I spared no bones telling her that I didn't. But I wanted to make her happy, and so, at last, I agreed. And then when the baby died, I remember sitting by her bed in the hospital, and when she woke up, telling her. 'You didn't want it," she said, and she looked so accusingly at me that it took my breath away. And—I know it sounds foolish—but Cecilia, what if I didn't? What if that is what made it happen—if that is what killed our little boy—?"

The agony in his voice was heartbreaking. Cecilia longed to cover her ears with her hands so she did not have to hear it. "Blythe, stop," she begged, feeling as though she would cry, herself, now. "You know that isn't the way it works. Babies come where they're not wanted all the time—you know that. And underneath, I think you did want the baby. You wouldn't feel this way, now, if you hadn't.

"Darling, I know Manon, in a way you don't," Cecilia pressed on, when he did not speak. "I don't mean to say I know her better—she is your wife—but I knew her at a time when she was at her worst. Blythe, I promise you that when Manon said that, it is far more likely that she was thinking that you hadn't wanted to ever be in that situation, and it was her who put you there. She was blaming herself, again. She thinks everything she touches turns to stone, because the world has been very cruel to her. But she was not blaming you. You mustn't think she was."

Blythe pressed his hands to his eyes. "I don't know how much longer we can go on like this," he said. "God help me. God help me. Cecilia—I think we may have to get a divorce. We are both so unhappy—any love that was there between us has withered—I don't know how. I love her so much, but I'm afraid to show it—or she doesn't want me to—or we both don't know how to do it, anymore."

"Blythe," said Cecilia softly. "I think you are depressed. Won't you let me prescribe you something? Just a little something—to help you over the worst of it."

Blythe took his hands away and smiled—a faint smile, but a real one. "Thank you, doctor," he said formally. "But I don't know. I don't."

"If it gets worse—you will come to me, though, won't you?"

"Yes—yes. I promise." He drained his cup. "And now I'd better get back—and you, too. I—I miss you, Cecilia. And I know Manon misses you, too."

Cecilia kissed him goodbye with a smile, but on the way home she had to pull off the road and lean her head on her steering wheel and cry. She hated to see unhappiness in anyone—it was torture to see those she loved in such pain. Would things never be right with Blythe and Manon again? Oh, God—let it be—let it.

Marshall was feeding Brook his supper when Cecilia came home. He set the spoon down when he saw her face. "Cee—what is it? What's happened?"

"Oh, Marshall!" She let him wrap his arms around her, hold her tight. "It's so awful. I—I saw Blythe."

She could feel him smile, against her hair. "I know," he said. "Don't ever try to gamble, wife of mine."

"And—you're not mad?"

"No—I'm glad you saw him. How was he?"

"He was—he was like death. Cold and calm and—hopeless. Oh, he's so unhappy, Marshall. I really think he hates himself, now. He said that he and Manon were thinking of—were thinking of divorcing."

"Ah," breathed Marshall. "Ah—poor Meredith. Poor Manon."

"He wouldn't let me help him." Cecilia dissolved into fresh tears. "He won't let anybody help him but he needs help."

"He isn't ready. Cee, it isn't good for you to cry like this. You must stop immediately, honey."

Cecilia made an effort to stop the sobs that were shaking her chest. She blinked until she held her tears at bay. Somehow, just being near Marshall helped. But Blythe's face, his sad, sad face!

"I miss him," Cecilia sniffled. She didn't only mean she missed him physically—she missed the Blythe that he had been before.

"I know," Marshall said, tightening his arms around his wife. "Honey, I know."