Forgive the sins of my wife,' he prayed. 'Forgive the winter cold of my heart.' For as he knelt in the darkened chapel by his wife's lifeless body, he knew the babe she had birthed could not be his. The scent of spring--blossoms, wet leaves, damp earth--preceded the alluring woman into the chapel. As she honored his dead wife with garlands, she seemed to bring him fresh hope, just as she nourished the little girl his wife had left behind. Even though she was not his, could it be wrong to reach out for life, for love? As he watched her nurse the child in the walled courtyard whre his wife had met her lovers, he could not deny his longing for her lush kiss, could not ignore her urging to turn away from yesterday's sorrows and embrace tomorrow's sweetness.