Una first saw Raymond West at a dinner dance over-harbour, but she did not mark that moment as the time of their first meeting because she did not really notice him. The place was much too lively for anyone to stand in one place for too long—Una included. She whirled to and fro on Shirley's arm, having so much fun that she hardly knew there was such as person as Raymond West in all the world.

But her ears pricked up when she heard his name mentioned around the manse dinner table several days later. Little Bruce was home from Queens for the half-term break, and the place was crowded with Blythes, who had come up to greet him. There was laughter and chatter coming from all sides, but Una still pricked her ears when she heard the unfamiliar name uttered. Raymond West—why, it was a thrilling name. So dashing and romantic, like the hero in a Gothic novel!

"Raymond West?" Una wondered, running over the list of copious Wests she knew in her mind. "Why, I've never heard of him. Why, who on earth is he?"

"My cousin," Rosemary laughed, "But a very distant one. He is come for a flying visit to the Island, and is staying with his father's people over-harbor now. But he will stay with us next month. You must have seen him at the dance last week-end, Una."

Una thought back but could remember only the brief flash of lamplight on black hair.

"His mother and I were good friends in our youth," Mrs. Rev. Meredith continued. "Ray must be—oh, about your age, now, Una, or a little older. I haven't seen him since he was a baby—he was born on the Island, but raised in Montreal."

"Oh, a city boy," sniffed Rilla Ford with disdain—forgetting that she herself had married one!

"Yes," Mrs. Meredith dimpled, "But I think you shall find him of the 'race that knows Joseph' all the same. He is an artist—he takes such lovely photographs. A few were exhibited in a gallery in Charlottetown several months ago."

"A photographer!" A buzz went around the table. Photographs and photographers were a relatively new thing in the Glen even yet—Una herself had only been photographed once in her life. She and Shirley had posed for a wedding portrait before their marriage and Una sometimes stopped during housecleaning to study her own face looking out at her from the frame. How flat-faced and expressionless she thought she looked! She did not like that picture. But she felt curious about this man who took photographs for a living. What an interesting occupation.

Young Gilbert Ford took that opportunity to upend his glass of milk into his lap, and in the flummox that followed, Una forgot totally about the small fact of Raymond West's existence.

Until church that next Sunday. Shirley had come down with a bad cold, and so Una left him with a hot brick and a toddy, concocted from a Susan Baker receipt. She dressed herself and stepped out into the wide, morning world.

The morning was Una's favorite time of day—Sunday morning was her favorite type of morning. The thaw had come and gone and there was the hint of spring on the air. "Every Sunday morning is like that first Easter day all over again," she thought, as she made for the Presbyterians, marveling at the clear pink light hanging over the Shore Road. Una delighted in that thought. It was—why, it was like something Walter might have said.

She had not thought of Walter in so long, and as she did now a twinge of remorse and regret washed over her. She felt for one moment completely sure that Walter would not have forgotten about her so quickly if she had died—in the next, she was miserable. Who knew if Walter had ever thought about her at all? The idea that he had not niggled at the edges of her consciousness during the long walk to the Glen; she arrived at the church feeling breathless and out of sorts.

There was only time enough for her to slip into the pew next to Rilla and her family.

"You're late," Rilla chastised in a whisper. "We've all met the famous Raymond West. My, what a charmer he is. He's sitting over there, up front, with the Timothy Wests, but you'll have to wait until after services to meet him."

Una craned her neck, trying to see above the crowd of people. She could only see Tim West's twin girls, their golden heads shining in the light that came from the stained glass windows. She writhed a little—Rilla's new motherly airs could be infuriating at times. "How nice," Una said mechanically. She opened her hymn book and stared at the words while everyone around her sang.

The elder Rev. Meredith took to the pulpit. Una usually loved to hear her father preach, but today she heard not a word of his sermon. She was lost in thought. She was thinking that it would soon be spring, and the mayflowers would be out in Rainbow Valley. Her thoughts wandered to a black-haired, black-browed, moon-pale boy who had loved those mayflowers. How many springs, Una wondered, would come and go and leave her thinking of Walter?

"I suppose I shall be remembering him all my life," she thought dismally. She looked up at the inscription hanging over the Blythe pew. Sacred to the memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe.

Una wondered if her whole life would not be sacred to his memory, too.

The reverend gave his final blessing and they all stood up to sing again. This time Una caught sight of a head of tousled black curls—a pair of broad shoulders—in the Timothy West pew. A tall, black haired, slender boy—who moved with such sudden and unthinking grace. He turned suddenly, as though feeling her eyes upon him, and Una felt her breath go from her.

Raymond West had a delicate, fine-drawn face. A clear-cut nose and a rich, sensitive mouth. His deep, gray eyes found Una's and held steady the gaze that stretched between them. For a moment she felt as though she were falling—yet at the same time impossibly buoyed up. She felt like she would sink into the ground—or be carried away by the wind. Una pressed her hand to her heart, which fluttered beneath her palm like a caged bird.

"What is it?" whispered Rilla, stricken by the look on her friend's face.

But Una could not speak just then. She could not move. She could not stop looking into a pair of luminous gray eyes, in a milk-white face. A face that was exactly like the one that had been burned onto Una's brain—and her heart. This man! How could this man—a stranger—look so like another she had known, when that other was gone? It was impossible. And yet—they could have been twins. There was no denying it. Raymond West was the spitting image of—of—

"Walter!" Una cried, pierced to the core by memory and shock. Her voice was like a shot—her face was bloodless pale.

The organist faltered, the singers trailed off. All eyes swiveled toward her, and for the second time in her life, Una fainted in church.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Una was in Rainbow Valley. It was warm—summer. She could feel the hot sun on her skin. Ghostly pictures appeared before her eyes and faded. A red-haired boy with a jolly laugh came very close to her and was gone. Two freckled faces, of sweet little girls, loomed large and then were far away. In her half-conscious state, Una came face to face with her own old self, thin and wan and solemn. There was a black-haired boy just out of reach, standing just across the water. She could not go to him.

Someone slapped her face, and she came back to herself with a gasp. Una opened her eyes with great difficulty. She was staring into his face.

"Stand back," he said to the crowd, and turned to Una. His arms were supporting her shoulders and she leaned into his chest, dazed. Oh, he smelled of sunshine and sweet woodruff. That was right—that was right—wasn't it?

He was here! She felt like crying and laughing at once. He had come back! But no—that would be impossible? Wouldn't it? Her eyes were very large.

"Walter?" she asked piteously.

"You heard her," the man said. "Someone run and fetch her a glass of water."

Oh! It was not him, after all. Una closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay back. Her mind was playing tricks on her. How cruel—what a cruel thing for a mind to do!

But when she opened her eyes again his face had not changed. This man—this Raymond West—was Walter, to the life. Una's eyes sought the familiar faces of her crowd. Why did they not call out, too? Why did they not see it?

"Do you think you can stand?" Walter—no. Raymond West—asked her.

"I think so," Una whispered. She let herself be pulled to her feet—how strong he was, this stranger! This stranger whom she felt she knew intimately. She felt unsteady, and nearly swooned again.

"You may lean on me," whispered Raymond West into her ear. The touch of his breath on her skin made her tremble. Una leaned gratefully on his arm, hiding her face against his shoulder.

Rosemary pushed her way through the knot of people. "Una! Darling!" she cried. "Dear, you are white as a sheet. We must get you home."

"I," Una faltered. "I don't know—if—I can walk."

Quick as a flash she was lifted—as though she were weightless, lighter than a feather—and a strong pair of arms were cradling her gently. "Allow me," said Raymond West, and he led the procession out of the church, and down to the manse.

In the house, everyone buzzed around her, and Una was glad for the hustle, the activity. Raymond's eyes would not leave hers. She did not want to be alone with him, because she did not know what she would do or say. Oh—she did want to be alone with him! How could she try to fool herself?

She felt ashamed for a second, but then she did not care.

Everyone scattered. Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe went to the kitchen, to get her some bread and tea. Rilla ran upstairs for a quilt and feather pillow. The doctor went down to Ingleside for some nerve pills. "And I'll go get Shirley!" cried Bruce, happy to be of assistance.

And then Una had her wish. She was alone with him. He crossed the room to her and took her hand in his own. She was not shocked by his forwardness. She lifted her face up so that he could see how pretty she was—and for the first time in her life, Una thanked God that she was pretty. How terrible if she should have disgraced him by being ugly.

"You gave me a terrible fright, honey," said Raymond West, with a funny half-smile. Una's hand trembled, and the sapphire on her ring finger caught the sunlight and flung it in her face, as though mocking her.

Oh! That horrible ring—her wedding ring. It felt like a fetter, now, holding her down. What a joke God had played on her! He had taken Walter, and the very moment she had let go of Walter, had tried to make a new life for herself, he had given Walter back to her, in another form. Una knew very certainly then that she had never loved Shirley, and never would. The man she was supposed to love for the rest of her life was standing here, before her, now!

Raymond looked thoughtfully from her face to the ring, and back again. "Una," he asked, his tone low and curious, "Who is Shirley?"

She looked miserably into his face. "He's my husband."

The words tasted like dust in her mouth.