Glen's old graveyard was a beautiful and grassy playful October wind shook rustling flaming yellow and orange maple leaves, and the fine sandy path was full of acorns and chestnuts.


In a shadowy corner stood Rosemary West, she laid a small wreath of ivy and bouquet of late blooming, hand-reared roses, on the already well-mossed tombstone, which read in chiselled letters; Bruce West - beloved son and brother. Sweet Rosemary, as the people of Lowbridge and Glen called her, as they met her either at Flagg's General Store or at the Episcopal Church, was in a pensive mood. She would soon be 17-years old, and world had suddenly opened up, in front of her in its all vivid colors. Only a little while ago, gallant, Martin Crawford, in his blue-striped coat, had smiled at her.


Rosemary straightened her shoulders, and started walking with light, winged steps in the direction of Flagg's store, for dear Ellen was again in the local library, she could drown hours in her days there, after what had happened with wild Norman, few years ago.

Norman Douglas, young giant, with a shimmering temper, who no longer escorted Ellen around the village. Only once had Rosemary tried to ask Ellen what had happened, but Ellen had replied in a frozen toneless voice, "Rosie-darling. Norman is as good as dead to us. I do not care if he goes to Halifax or Hell." Their family's old, already somewhat dilapidated country house in the hills, where flowers, cats, books, and, music were the only law, and the presence of mother, dear goldenhaired, frail mother, wrapped over everything, like a loving but sometimes a suffocating invisible, silky web.


Perusing the shelves of Flagg's store, Rosemary felt the prying eyes of the residents of the Glen, and calmly, with sly movements, she selected her purchases and went to the register. Suddenly familiar, cheerful voice greeted Rosemary, and she turned. It happened to be unconventionally dressed Cornelia Bryant, in her rose-patterned dressing gown, her brown eyes were twinkling, as she said, "Rosemary, you're rarely seen around here. This year's apple crop is glorious, isn't it? I was wondering if you've seen Leslie in recent weeks, as you are sometimes running in the same crowd?"

Rosemary smiled openly at Cornelia's curiosity and said harmoniously "You know very well that Leslie, doesn't take people into her confidences, despite her winning ways. Especially not distant younger relatives, like me. For me Leslie has always been a vision of lifes possibilities, as she did go to Queens only last year, and came back with a First. Sometimes I play piano for them, for her and Rose, but I have not seen her for some time now. I have heard that the rumours say that Abner Moore´s son has taken liking to Leslie, but Leslie has been snubbing him down, in her freezing way."

"Dick Moore, can be charming, I suppose, if you're into that kind of swaggering style. Sailors, sailors. I always say men are not to be trusted, but my absolute rule is, especially not those with the sea in their blood." Cornelia sighed, and said in a slightly pained voice, "Unfortunately, there are exceptions to everything, and Jim Boyd is one of them." Rosemary bit her lip to stifle the burst of silvery laughter that bubbled up, for the spiky friendship between Capitan Jim and Cornelia was legend in the area. With a light nod to Cornelia, Rosemary started walking across Glen towards her home, winding country road.


Maple grove was a short walk away, and the sweet smell of the marshes on summer evenings brought its own flavor to this lonely, windy place. Rosemary held her flowing blonde tresses and soon West house, was in front of her. Satisfaction flashed in her heart as Rosemary looked at her home. It was gray two-story house with large windows, covered with reddish wild wine vines. Behind house was a dark forest with pointed spruces. A large garden filled with apple trees and flowers, especially roses, glistened in the light, a cat was frolicking on the stone steps.

Carefully, Rosemary stepped inside, and soon a soft, familiar voice came from the living room "Rose-dearie, will you make us some tea?" Humming Schumann´s lied Seit ich ihn gesehen from his liedcycle Frauenliebe und leben Rosemary fixed the tea tray and took some gingerbread from the cupboard. And soon the gilded rose and violet tea set was ready to pour. Rosemary thought the tea set was very pretty, but Ellen sometimes snorted that it was too Victorian. Every time Rosemary entered the living room she felt calmer, it was was a place of homeliness and inner harmony. Bookshelves, folders of notes, stylish, but well-worn furniture, and houseplants, and a light sofa and a few armchairs and a roaring fireplace. And on the silk divan - which had been a wedding present - Lavinia West, Rosemary's mother, rested, regal and frail. Lovingly, Rosemary gazed into pale, fine-featured face that did resemble her own, in small subtle ways. Lavinia's hair had been as fair as hers, but grief and loss had prematurely grayed her, and a bonnet of the finest muslin and lace covered her head. Lavinia's vivid large blue eyes softened as she glanced at Rosemary who was making the tea, just as she wanted it.

The smell of malted tea and cream wafted through the room. A small gilded clock ticked on the edge of the fireplace, and it always chimed on even Lavina sipped her tea, she pondered her yougest child.

Rosemary had seemed withdrawn and dreamy, for the past few weeks, and piano had been quiet, which was unusual. Instead Rosemary had sung softly different episcopal hymns, they were twined with english county ballads. There were usually sparkling music here, Schumann, Schubert, Chopin, and other classic repertoir, and dark rumble of Ellen's voice as she read aloud her complex and challenging works, on philosophy and world politics.


Door opened, as Ellen rushed in. The fresh wind had raised a dark blush on her broad face, and her blue eyes sparkled with crisp humour, and her green walking dress was satiny smooth, her thick dark hair, was pulled efficently in place. Rosemary sensed, that despite all her arguments, and bossy ways, Ellen was fragile, and even the slightest flaw, in their own universe, could tip the scales to dark gloom, for melancholy ran in the West's family. Slowly scent of a tasty stew wafted from the kitchen, as Lavina had argued Ellen down with asperity saying "If I want to cook in my own home, I'll do it. Making a stew with my grandmother's recipe, won't take me to my grave, don't fret so, Ellen."


Rosemary nervously fingered the window curtain, and glancing around once more, but all was still. She took her blue velvet cloak, with its deep pockets, and set off across the windy yard to the road that led to the maple grove.


The sunset reddened the sky with its glory.


From the window of her own room, Ellen watched Rosemary slink away, thoughtfully, and with one hand she stroked the striped kitten, who purred with devotion. Rosemary was so kind-hearted, and helpful, but also completely unaware of her own dangerous charm. All romance and not a lick of sense, in her blond fluffy head. Ellen had been always proud, of her younger sister, who had in these last few years blossomed like Junelily. Mother, Lavinia, it was clear to Ellen that she was withering day by day, but surely modern medicine was capable of miracles. There were all kinds of operations and new treatments.

With a silent sigh Ellen tried to read her volume of John Ruskin's essays, but she couldn't focus. Quite by change she had seen a glimpse, of Norman. He had been with Miss Reese, who was soon to be Douglas, if Glen rumours were true.

With iron self-discipline Ellen banished all thoughts of Norman away from her mind and feeling annoyed, Ellen picked up another book and opened it indiscriminately, only to be stopped by Emily Dickinson's verses.

Fitfully she spoke to the purring cat in her lap "There is a little bit of Divinity in literature, although poetry is usually Rosemary's patch. It must be admitted in the name of honesty that as an American Dickinson writes very insightfully that I would almost be moved if I were inclined to too much sentimentality."


A little out of breath and with reddened cheeks, Rosemary arrived at the spring, it was bordered by dried ferns. She sat down on a mossy seat and waited. The shadows of the spruce and deciduous trees flickered on the surface of the water. Shyly, and with trembling hands, Rosemary stood up, as frantically she looked into Martin's friendly, open face, as he came up from the path.

His auburn hair was wind mussed as curls flowed freely, in most romantic manner. Martin bowed and handed a bouquet of autumn flowers and maple leaves to Rosemary, saying softly, "Flowers for you, Miss West." Blush deepened on Rosemary's cheeks, and she thought of the Tennyson poems that Martin had recited to her when they first met, only few weeks ago, they had been his seafearing ones, full of adventure, of foreing climes, past loves, and loss and alluring hum of the sea. Martin had then sung pure and clear tenor descant, with bird-like grace in the Episcopal choir of Lowbridge. Rosemary sat and listened, and girlish hopes fluttered in her heart.


Martin Crawford looked half shyly at the girl in the blue cloak, Miss West. In the twilight of October, her fair, graceful beauty and sweetness were well thought slipped into Martin's mind. What if he didn't go to sea after all when spring came, but stayed here? Rosemary raised her large blue eyes, as she smiled shyly and radiantly, and summoning up his courage, Martin ventured to put out his elbow to the girl, and together they walked away from the fountain, as happy and blissful as young people can be in the first flush of emotion.


The year went on, like a glittering ribbon.


Rosemary, in her pale lace-trimmed muslin dress, her best church clothes, impatiently, with burning cheeks, waited for Martin.


The spring in the maple grove was full of the sweet scents of spring, and the maple seat was like a throne. The spring water was crystal clear.


The light of the spring evening was almost translucent, and Martin was just a black shadow as he strode cautiously along the path. Rosemary was almost giddy, for she knew that here, today, perhaps soon, something of the utmost importance would be said, which was woven into the core of her being, like a half-opened dewy rose.


Martin was pale and tense, and boyishly with slightly trembling hands, took Rosemary's cold hands in his, and whispered, "Rosie, my dear. You know I'm leaving tomorrow. And I want to tell you, can you wait for me? For I've loved you from the first moment, when you walked down the aisle of Lowbridge Church in your blue ruffled dress, slender and distant, like a star. But first impressions are seldom true, for you are a captivating sweet and delightful girl, my girl, if you will?"

Rosemary listened to Martin's burning, confession of love. Martin's blue eyes were so alluring, and in the twilight, all Rosemarys doubts vanished as she whispered her own secret with trembling lips.

And with the utmost tenderness Martin caressed Rosemary's face, and pressed a light, airy kiss to her lips. Happiness and future bliss seemed to vibrate in the air, and somewhere a nightingale sang its gently rising note. How spring light shone on Martin's, dear clean features, and on the brass buttons of his striped coat, with anchor pictures on them?

Martin smiled at Rosemary, and his bright voice rose into song, Hail, you Star of Ocean! portal of the sky.

And Rosemary added her own bright girlish soprano to Martin's tenor.

Their voices joined as their lips had done a few moments ago.


The next morning, with a pink dawn reddening the harbor of the Four Winds. Blessing was on her way, the gray-blue-green waves crashing in her wake, and Rosemary ran, to the highest point of the Four Winds, and stood frozen, till no sail of the ship could be seen on the horizon.


Singing, Martin Crawford had never returned to grace the ruddy shores of Glen, as Blessing was shipwrecked near the Magdalene Islands.


The wait had taken the roses from Rosemary's cheeks, and sometimes, as on this autumnal shimmering evening, she slipped again to the forest spring, to meet her lost love, and the young, bright blooming girl she had been in 1888, nearly eighteen years ago, now. Rosemary knew that a piece of her heart was forever buried with Martin. Rosemary had managed to maintain within herself a sincere and childlike enthusiasm for life, despite adversity and disappointments.


Over the years, several Glen and Lowbridge men had tried to woo both Rosemary and Ellen, but the West girls, as they were called in the village vocabulary, were content with their lives in the gray house on the hill, with each other, as Mother Lavinia had succumbed into long illness, when Rosemary had been 25 years of age, and after that had been only Ellen and her.

A slight frown crossed Rosemary's smooth brow as she thought of her sister, and of the promise she had made when Ellen had been so weak, years and years ago, in the throes of nervous fever. Blue eyes burning, red spots on her cheeks, Ellen had been clinging to Rosemary's hands at that time, demanding a solemn promise, a wow on Lavinia's Bible, that Rosemary would never leave her, never marry. And tired, exhausted, and with tears in her eyes, kneeling by Ellen's bed, Rosemary had promised, for her heart had been broken once before, and Martin's memory was dearer than gold.


The moonlight cast its shadows on the bluish asters that spread like a fine carpet on the ground, and Rosemary straightened her books with her arm, and a little tiredly she lifted her skirt, and stepped over the lacy frerns. And suddenly she looked up, because someone else was already sitting in her secret place.


Reverend Meredith raised his pale, aristocratic face, and something like astonishment flashed in his dark eyes. Rosemary felt herself blushing, and she resorted to a little emergency excuse, as everyone does sometimes, "I came for a drink."