It was often a point of contention among the young marriageable age Glen lasses and former yet non married cotierie of Junior Reds as to which of the following young men caused the most sleepless nights, or secret tears, or wistful glances, whenever possible, tall, broad-shouldered, taciturn Shirley Blythe, with his flair for pastry and lustre of a former flying ace, tawny and merrily golden Carl Meredith, despite his eye patch, and strange passion for animals, or rougish temperamental Leo West, from Over Harbour.

Ethel Reese's upcoming wedding to Alois Kirke was the talk of the town, as was the fact that Ethel Reese had seen mysterious letters arrive at Ingelside, bearing foreign postage stamps and strange calligraphy.

When the talks and whispers reached the ears of one Susan Baker, the practical woman was heard only to say to her shimmering peonies, "As long as my beloved boy, does not court Irene Howard, I shall be content."

Anne Blythe raised her shifting gaze from the annual letter, from beloved Pris, it seemed that Pris had had her first grand-child, among the blushing pink cherryflowers that echoed Houseman, as she replied " Oh Susan, Susan. I admit that Irene Howard as a daughter by marriage would be a trial, I refuse to believe it. It is only typical airs of Irene. He seemed keen about that lovely dark-haired Torontonian, at the wedding of Rilla, do you remember, with her lumious smile and gold colored frock. "

Susan's sniff was half-hearted, for her beloved boy, had been only polite, as one should be to a guest at any wedding, but one could hope and perhaps plan.

The light of the Easter season shone in the garden, once again in its pre-war glory, it was more of a poem than a garden, with a touch of wild sensibility of aromatic herbs along conched flowerbeds.

Susan slipped her work-hardened hand into her apron pocket and touched the corner of Shirley's letter, as she remembered well what is said.

HayCorner, late April, 19-

Mother Susan, for the last few weeks in my spare time I have been grappling with a certain recipe I got from someone.

And I think I'm going to bake it today, a cake, honey tart.

Rest assured, that I am not sitting in the wrong kind of service on Sundays, my learned of the rote presbyterianism is too deep, though I have never seen any sense in it, in the service, any of it, not ever, especially not since when I returned. Some of my class, though mathematicians do not believe in other higher powers, as a rule, I have found.

A resident is in currently mangling certain hymn, on the piano, which is always out of tune. I notice that Una Meredith seems to be suffering. Carl entertains Una's guests, and I think you would like one of them. There is no frills at all, just efficiency that might intimidate, even intimidate most, but not anyone who knows the politicking of the Glen Ladies Aid Quilt Society, as Una does, as well as parochial issues, so it is no wonder that Una is blooming here in Redmond, for by all accounts, the Music Department is worse in terms of internal competition, than the war-efforts between the Glen and Lowbridge parishes were in bygone days, or so I have surmised, not that she says anything directly, well you know how any Merediths can be.

If you can, please write me an account of the Reese-Kirke wedding meals, especially the desserts, if you may.

SJB.

Susan rubbed her aching back, as she remembered anew how Shirley had sat patiently beside her as a child and watched his dark brown eyes steadily, always while she baked, without asking anything, but always handing over the right utensils, often before Susan had even reached for them.

It had been instictive in him. That deliberate, innate carefulness.

So it was no wonder than that Shirley in times of busyness, of vibrancy of Redmond returned to his earliest comforts, baking. The many references to Una in the letter stirred hopes in Susan's heart.

At the same time, Anne Blythe remarked musingly, "Rosemary says Una's letters from Redmond have been brighter. Apparently she sees Shirley and Carl on occasions."

Cornelia Marshall Elliott's recognizable voice floated, fiercely into the garden and verandah of Ingelside as she exclaimed, "Mary Vance, swore that she saw Irene Howard and Leo West were canoodling, I only wonder how low a relative of dear Leslie can sink. A Howard of all lovely lasses here. I just don't understand it."

Anne laughed brightly, and that laughter was joined by Rilla, who said mischievously, "Ken once told me that Leo West has broken many hearts in his own way, with his flashing ways."

Cornelia Marshall Elliott took out her sewing as she replied emphatically, "Rilla dear, it is not ladylike to tell tales, or heresy, but I can confirm those words. Leo West has a similar way to him, as many West men have in the past, discontented, charming, I think Leo West will soon leave these rosy shores, and if, if Irene Howard would follow, him, it would not be a disappointment."

Rilla looked at the jocunds of daffodils, their buds swaying in the breeze, dreamily as she murmured, "Upper-Glen, without Irene Howard it would be lovely."

The bright light of the room was milky, reflected distortedly from the top of the great black piano, as one by one, the mass of students arrived, and played, Bach, Schubert, Ravel, Debussy, tempestuous Rachmaninoff, Schumann, Elgar.

Professor Mabel Sorel, glanced with a jerky movement at her wristwatch, soon, soon the day would be over.

Una Meredith played Elgar with her eyes closed, as if she were swimming in a sea of spring flowers, the notes trembling, pulsating, unraveling, like forbidden caresses.

Afterwards walrus-like Professor Bernard cornered her, across the Quad, and noted, " Well my dear, dear Miss Sorel, it would be more appropriate, if you showed more effort, in your outer-appearences, it would be benefical."

Mabel Sorel, glanced at Professor Bernard's tartan waist-coat, it was an eyesore, and replied coolly, even curtly, " To whom. I am here for music, not to edit, or to write a fashion column. And now, I must be elsewhere."

Professor Bernard only spluttered, as that impossible woman, the bane of his smooth academic carrier, in the hallowed halls of Redmond, continued her clipped walk, in her sensible low-heeled shoes, and pale peach-colored scarf floating along, with her wide vibrant hat.

The grounds of Redmond were peaceful, even calm in the streaming sunshine.

And on their bench, sat Victor Chase, waiting, as Una had hoped, as they walked without speaking, through the fragrant flowers.