8 THE GARDEN OF A 



Where was the dog going? Down between the 

 weigelias and lilacs through the stiff little arbour to 

 the garden, to the great bough apple tree whose 

 trunk was encircled by a seat. 



Surely Bluff had not forgotten. Then as he saw 

 that I hesitated, he ran to a corner where stepping 

 stones led up the bank to the open fields, gave a 

 short bark and waited for me. 



" Not to-night, old fellow ; to-morrow we will go 

 there," I said, seating myself by the apple tree. 

 Instantly he thrust his nose into my hand, then 

 curled himself up at my feet. 



Before me was the garden where I had played all 

 my childhood, until playing had turned into dream- 

 ing. It was unkempt, but it seemed to have more 

 dignity and meaning than the garden of my memory ; 

 the unpruned rosebushes reached out long bare arms, 

 or formed briery tangles according to their kind, the 

 shrubs were massive and well grown, and had the 

 soothing influence of permanence. In a sheltered 

 corner a cluster of chrysanthemums, unharmed by 

 frost, showed their silvery disks, and a single crum- 

 pled pansy looked up from the path where it had 

 found footing. What was that perfume ? Stooping, 

 I separated the cold, damp leaves of a mat of Russian 

 violets that grew from under the seat. Yes, there 



