IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 17 r 



with unspeakable prophecy as they waited at the 

 doors of the future. 



It is an autumn afternoon, and the sun lies warm 

 on the ripening vines that cover the wall, and on 

 the late flowers that bloom by the roadside. As I 

 write these words I look up from my portfolio, and 

 Rosalind sits there, work in hand, smiling at me 

 over her flying needle. My glance rests on her a 

 moment, and a strange uncertainty comes over me. 

 Have I really been in Arden, or have I dreamed 

 these things, looking into Rosalind s eyes ? It mat 

 ters little whether I have traveled or dreamed ; 

 where Rosalind is, there, for me at least, lies the 

 Forest of Arden. 



