with her you will discover where the poetry in her mother's soul has gone.

"Good-by, my dear Emily. Perhaps some day it will be my good fortune to see you again.

Your affectionate friend,

AMY LEVINE DEARBORN."

The gold-rimmed glasses dropped from Mrs. Warren's eyes.

"Paul," she gasped, "Paul, is n't this extraordinary? Of course I want to see Eleanor Mason's daughter, but where can she be?"

"Oh, at some place in the village, probably," answered her son. "You can find her easily enough. I'll ask the postmaster."

"But what does she mean by saying that when I know her I shall see where Eleanor's poetry has gone? Perhaps she has brought it with her to read on the rocks."

Here Uncle Peter's shaky fist struck the great table with as much force as he could summon.

"By the bones of my ancestors, that's the girl I saw the other day!"

"Where?" cried Mrs. Warren eagerly. "What does she look like?"

"She looks," answered Uncle Peter, who also had his poetic, or at least his Byronic, moments, "she looks like moonlight and starlight. 'She walks in beauty' - don't you know - 'like

Peter were both absent in the city, was busy giving instructions to Aunt Belinda, and had let her guest go free. It was only yesterday that Mrs. Warren had driven to the Emerson Inn to seek out the daughter of her old friend, and had waited for her in the green and gold reception room, wistful, tremulous, her heart beating high with old memories and with present shyness. Frances Wilmot, entering, had paused on the threshold, with a cloud upon her white forehead; the card told her nothing; she knew only that somebody had invaded her solitude. But when the older woman rose and held out her hands impetuously, as the sight of the girl's face brushed away forty years of her life, saying, "I was a friend of your mother, my dear," Frances went to her and took her hands, holding her face out to be kissed. To the two it had seemed that they had a long past to talk over; and the young girl's eyes grew dim at meeting her mother as a little child.

She was strolling bareheaded down the long paths, with her face turned slightly upward that the sunlight might fall there, and she was drinking deep of sea air, mingled with fragrance of sweet peas and of tall yellow lilies. Who had made this enchanted garden, she was wondering, with its high walls of stone that reached to the brown rocks, beyond which the blue sea rolled in? It was guarded by spruce trees and cedars, of deeper and softer green than those farther inland, breaking the splendor of its color where beds of red or yellow roses lay.

It was the original Paul Warren, who, with memories of his Devonshire home fresh in his mind, had planned to make a garden spot of this great space by the water, though he had died, weary of fighting the wilderness, before anything was planted there. His children and grandchildren had broken the sea - meadow into furrows and had planted golden corn and spreading pumpkin vines where tall reeds had grown and the soft marsh grasses had waved in the wind. Fluffy yellow chickens and small brown peeping

turkeys, escaping from yard or coop, had gone pattering up and down the spaces where bobolinks had been wont to sway on long grasses. Blue blossoms of flax spread where scarlet Queen - of- theMeadow and small red August lilies had grown. It was the wife of the great-greatgreat-grandfather Warren of reckless fame who had found consolation in the long years of her widowhood in reclaiming a part of the space from vegetables and giving it over to flowers. The beds nearest the house, oval or oblong or starshaped, had been planned by her, although the white picket fence that had guarded her treasures was gone.

Of the reign of great-grandmother Anne, who had been a lover of all beautiful things, nothing remained save one ragged, sturdy rose tree climbing over the southern wall of gray-brown stone. James Francis Warren, who had caused the walls to be built, had carefully treasured this relic of the past, training it away from its old wooden trellis to new support. He, with tastes that were, perhaps, a far-off echo of those of the first Paul Warren's father, the country squire, had extended the garden-space to the edge of the sea, and had planted the old pear trees, broken and knotted, that still wakened now and then to life and put forth blossoms on the May air. In this fruit garden which met the space of flowers, peach trees and plum and cherry stood side by side, with neglected currant and gooseberry bushes not far away. Still a few luscious bits of fruit dropped from the broken and crumbling limbs into the tangled grass below, golden pear, or roseflushed peach, or plum with dim purple bloom.

Generations of Warrens had played there in childhood, climbing the apple trees, making silken doll robes out of scarlet poppy petals, and royal sceptres of sunflower stems; generations of Warrens had paced the walks to the slow beating of the tide on the rocks beyond, dreaming their love dreams; and generations of white-haired men and white-haired wo

men had tottered up and down these paths, at the edge of eternity and of the sea. And still, though half neglected, it was full of all old-fashioned, lovely things: yellow crocus and white in earliest spring, and blood-red tulips later when the grass sprang fresh and green; gorgeous tiger lilies and red poppies, larkspur, and candytuft, all sweeter in perfume, deeper in color, for the breath of the sea air.

The girl who was walking idly through it felt the long story that she did not know. Song sparrows were twittering among the dim blue berries of the cedars; a great bumblebee was humming in a bush of old-fashioned single roses, deep red, with golden stamens; and about it all flowed the melody of the sea. Her feet kept time to the measure and to that of some verses that would not be quiet:·

"I know a little garden close

Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

"And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod
And I beheld them as before."

For her grief was ever present, though wind and tide had begun, without her knowledge, to set it to music with all the rest of the world.

Wandering with no aim save to find the spot where the breeze was freshest or the fragrance most sweet, she came suddenly upon an old man who was busily weeding a bed of cinnamon pinks: it was the eldest Andrew Lane. The hair beneath his sun-browned hat was white as snow, as was the beard that touched the dull blue of his shirt. Hearing a footstep he looked up, turning to the girl a face seamed with a thousand wrinkles, and greeted her with a good-morning.

"It is a very beautiful garden," said Frances Wilmot tentatively; this old man looked as if he might have most interesting things to say.

"I've seen wuss," he answered, weeding again. "But this don't hev no care now. I'm gittin' pretty old."

made a most lovely background for the climbing white roses that had crept over them and had fastened them permanently

"Have you worked here long?" asked the girl, drawing nearer.

"Sence them walls was built," said the old gardener, "and that's sixty year ago., I've took care of the place ever sence, havin' help, of course. Lord, in James Francis Warren's day it was a garden: not an extry leaf on anything, and every bush and tree trimmed like a pinted beard."

"I like it a great deal better this way," said the girl confidingly, "just half running wild."

"Do you, now?" said old Andrew Lane. "That's cur'us; what fur?"

"Oh," she answered lightly, “it looks as if things had happened, and as if it were full of meanings. There's an air of mystery or something about it."

The toothless smile of the old man's face vanished, and a shrewd look crept into the pale blue eyes under the sunken eyebrows.

"I don't know nothin' about no myst'ry," he said sullenly, going back to his weeding with vigor; nor could she win any further conversation from him, nor from his small great-grandchild, Andy, who toddled after the old man in tiny overalls of yellow.

In the afternoon she went with Mrs. Warren about the great house, which, after the fashion of earlier days, faced, not the sea, but the highway. Outside, the young summer had touched its age to freshness: wistaria, still fragrant with clusters of late blossoms, climbed the tall white pillars, and the long festoons of woodbine wore new, flushed leaves and tendrils. Pale purple lilacs were in bloom by the white southern wall, and the faded blue-green blinds of the parlor windows

"It is just like home, is n't it?" said the Southern girl.

"It has never seemed so to me," answered the elder lady, puzzled, for home to her had meant the gay life that had gone on in it.

The dimly lighted interior showed little trace of springtime; old furniture, old hangings, suggested only the past. They paused for a time in the library, whose worn leather chairs bespoke long use, and whose great bookshelves were filled with volumes that revealed solid tastes and thoughtful minds.

"My son spends much of his time here. He he writes," said Mrs. Warren apologetically, for she was filled with a new sense of the difference between Paul and the gallant young heroes of the South. He could do much if he only would to enliven the stay of this charming girl in the North, but he cared little for women, and less for young ones, and his mother sighed softly.

"Please come into the garden again," pleaded Frances. "I cannot bear to be away from it."

Mrs. Warren looked at her in wonder, but said nothing, for in later years she had learned more and more to stay silent until she understood. As she paced the old paths with this girl at her side, it seemed to her that the whole expression of the place changed. Tree, flower, and vine took on softer and brighter colors; the eerie sounds that had haunted her ears grew almost joyous, and the oldfashioned sailing boat, the Sea Gull, riding the waves in the sheltered cove by the house, seemed to tug at its moorings as with desire to be free and to dance.

"Ought n't you to have your hat on, to keep from spoiling your complexion ?” she asked, with a sudden sense of responsibility.

The girl's laugh rang out sweetly. "Young women nowadays never think

of their complexions," she answered, and Mrs. Warren frowned a puzzled little frown. Fewer and fewer people thought her thoughts or spoke her language, as she grew older.

"This place must have been the greatest joy to you," said Frances suddenly. "It has been rather an anxiety," said Mrs. Warren. "The gardener has grown so old that he can work only a little and on sunshiny days, and it all needs clipping and trimming. Paul does not understand, and says he likes it this way."

"It looks like a garden in a fairy story, the one where Beauty met the Beast"

"I never read fairy stories," murmured Mrs. Warren.

"Or the gardens of Hesperides, where the golden apples grew."

"We have very few apples now, and only red ones, though of course I know that is not what you mean," observed the hostess regretfully.

The conversation drifted over to Paul Warren, who had come home by the four o'clock train, and who was pacing his favorite garden path, hidden, close by the north wall, by an arbor vitæ hedge. If the truth must be known, he had taken refuge there to avoid his mother's guest. The girl's voice startled him: melodious and full, it sounded like hidden music along his nerves. There were ripples of laughter in it, and soft little murmurs of sadness; and it played upon him as fingers play upon keys. The fact that it belonged to a woman did not interest him; it was as if he had discovered a new art. He waited until the sound of familiar hoof-beats assured him that the guest was being driven home in the old-fashioned family carriage, and then came out of his retreat, self-reproachful when he heard his mother's laments that he had not come home in time to meet the child of her old friend.

VI

The lowest ebb of the tide came in the early afternoon, and the curving sand

beach that lay just beyond the Warren homestead, like a sickle of pale gold cutting the blue water from green grassy meadow, stretched parched and dry in the glare of the summer sun. Bird songs were hushed, but the low hum of insects was on the hot air, and from far, with an ironic sound as of cool water retreating from thirsty need, came the ripple of withdrawing waves. Paul Warren, restlessly active in the languid air, was walking up and down the veranda, keeping pace with grief, for step by step beside him he seemed to hear the echo of the footfall that had so often sounded with his own. Suddenly a soft nose was thrust into his hand with a long, mournful whimper, and two great golden brown eyes were lifted to his in passionate entreaty: Robin Hood was still hunting for his master.

"Poor old fellow!" said Paul, patting the upturned head, "I would give him. back to you if I could."

The old dog sniffed anxiously at the young man's coat and hands, then drew away and gazed with eyes in which the look of entreaty was changing to one of deep reproach.

"It is something I do not understand any better than you do, Robin, and yet I know you don't believe me. You are saying to yourself: 'Whose fault is it, then, if not yours, and where have you hidden him away?""

Robin, as if assenting, walked away with a low growl, and his young master, ever quick of sympathy with dumb beasts, looked after him with eyes that matched his own in depth of puzzled sorrow.

Here Uncle Peter strolled out upon the veranda, fresh and smiling, with a cigarette between his teeth, and under his arm a paper-covered novel drawn from a large and varied store which he had been accumulating for more than forty years. With a swift movement Paul slipped into the library in time to escape, and drew a sigh of relief at the sight of the shelves where his beloved, silent friends awaited him, and where sense and spirit could rest in the mellow coloring of old leather

chairs and worn volumes. As he loved for their solitude certain lonely parts of the shore where his own best thoughts seemed always to await him, he loved the quiet of this spot; and now, without opening a book, he touched one after another with his finger tips, - Spinoza, Kant, Sir Thomas Browne, the thinkers great and small whose minds had kindled his own, almost fancying that he felt a responsive pressure from the leatherbound volumes. The old black-letter romances and the illuminated missal in the cabinet by the fireplace must surely share his sense of loss, so great had been his father's pride in them; and the worn copies of Spencer and Huxley must miss the hands that were gone. The cover of Darwin's Descent of Man was torn where Robin had chewed it as John Warren went to sleep in his chair one day, and Paul touched it with gentle fingers, remembering. So they had passed on, generation by generation, he mused, leaving here upon the library shelves a record of their tastes and of their callings, like driftwood cast up by the sea. The set of antique sermons had belonged to the ministerial ancestor; the old dramas to one who had a liking for written plays; the Spectators and Ramblers to his grandfather, James Francis Warren; and here was he, Paul, with his huge volumes of German philosophy, his row of French essayists in their yellow paper covers, and his abiding sense of the world's lack of need of him. Softened light came into the great room through the half-closed shutters; a golden bumblebee wandered in on a ray of sunlight and had difficulty in finding his way out; warm fragrance of all things blossoming in the garden stole in on the breeze. The young man dropped into a great leather-covered chair, flung his arms down upon the table, over some sheets of his own manuscript where the ink had dried ten days ago, and buried his face in them to rest. Here, and here only, the awful sense of difference was gone, and the quick and the dead were alike. Then, in the silence, his mind be

gan to travel the old ways of question: what was it all for, the bootless search, the suffering, the long thinking, and the pain? Surely there was but small return for the great demands that life made upon one's power to endure!

Slowly the shadowed days of all his life came back to him; the boyhood spent in the gloomy house, where the long silences, his mother's unspoken sadness, and Uncle Peter's morbid fancies regarding the past, had cast a spell upon him; and then the years of study when he had grown from child to man, coming home at each vacation to find the old house absolutely unchanged. Through the dull color of it all a sense of his father's pride and interest in his son had run like a thread of gold. It was he who had guided the child's reading, giving him books unknown to most boys of ten and of twelve; it was he who sat quietly chuckling at his son's comments on men and on things; for an insight into the ironies of life had come to the lad too easily and too soon, and the words of his tongue were as the fine pricking of a delicately pointed weapon; it was he who had fostered the boy's gift for writing, coaxing the dark-haired youngster, who had always an elusive look in his eyes, to sit upon his knee and repeat the verses he had written. Paul did it shyly, the color deepening in his cheeks; and even now he could remember the thrill of joy that came when his father patted him on the head and praised him, for words of praise and caresses had been few and far between. Sometimes the inherited mood of sadness had been broken by charmed moments when sudden enchantment visited him, and, surrendering to the unconscious spell of warm sunshine on fragrant flowers, or of the beat of a summer shower on the window-pane, he dreamed rare dreams of happiness and of great achievement.

Always Paul had loved the old house, whose expression had settled early upon his childish face. He liked its dark corners and mysterious doorways, especially the awful one leading to the garret which