154 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



December, 1914 



Rudolph nodded "good" and wrote 

 with a cramped hand on the label, re- 

 peating as he wrote. " Garnet unfolting 

 to pale rose," then twisted the wire 

 around. 



"Und this?" 



It was hard to tell; the petals were 

 salmon infused with pale gold. 



"What is it's name?" she asked. 



"Three-hundred und forty-four." 



"Sounds like a prisoner," she said, 

 "or a ward patient! It should have a 

 better name than that!" 



"You can name it," he said, "it iss 

 mine. It iss one of the new seedlings. 

 It iss hard to find names for all the chil- 

 tren. Take it!" 



She took the flower. "It looks like 

 the sun shining through in the morning 

 more than anything else," she said. 

 "Perhaps I'll find a name, but I must 

 go now, Uncle Rudolph; I've a list for 

 Peter. I have to go down to 'End 

 Entirely.'" 



She went quickly down a broad grass 

 path, through another gateway and 

 into the drive again. It was not a wide 

 one; on each side were tall, close-clipped 

 hemlock hedges that stretched straight 

 to the bordering line of woods, where 

 the drive ended in a circle. This was 

 what Michael called "Entirely." "To 

 be sure," he said, " 'tis the 'End En- 

 tirely.'" To Roberta's mind there 

 should have been a statue or a fountain 

 or a pool at the end of the driveway; 

 the straight hedges, the blooming trees 

 that reached above it and the dim woods 

 that ended it seemed to demand such a 

 terminus. Instead, at the end of the 

 stately drive, was an 

 unnoticed opening 

 which led to the un- 

 pretentious establish- 

 ment of Washington 

 Jones, the well-temp- 

 ered Negro teamster. 



Roberta walked 

 quickly and happily, 

 swinging the azalea be- 

 tween her fingers, look- 

 ing up again and again 

 at the late Magnolia 

 Lenne that held up 

 great wine - colored 

 chalices to the morning 

 sun, and the blossom- 

 ing pear trees. For on 

 the other side of the 

 hedge pear and peach 

 tree stood row after 

 row in brilliant flower 

 while here and there a 

 crimson peach showed 

 vivid against the 

 dazzling whiteness as a 

 scarlet tanager against 

 a snowbank. 



Unconsciously, she began to hum an 

 air and then sang in a clear young voice, 

 light and rather delicate but true. 



"Faites-lui mes avceux, portes mes vceux 

 Revellez a son ame, 

 Le secret de ma flamme 

 Que mon cceur nuit et jour — " 



She stopped suddenly. 

 Just at the opening of Washington's 

 private road, which the widening of the 

 hedge had concealed, stood a tall young 

 fellow, sketch-book in hand, soft felt 

 hat pulled down over his eyes. He had 

 on brownish, loose-fitting clothes, but 

 she noticed only the dark gray eyes and 

 the shock of light hair. 



He pulled off his cap quickly. "I 

 hope I'm not trespassing," he said. 



"No," she answered, "not unless you 

 break branches or pull up plants." 



"It was so like an English garden," 

 he said, "and I had to have a bit of an 

 English garden. I wish I hadn't stopped 

 the song!" 



Roberta did not answer. 

 "Look!" she said, pointing to the 

 blossoming tree that reached over the 

 hedge opposite. A brown thrush flew 

 from the hedge top, lit on the very tip 

 of a blossoming branch, poised himsejf, 

 swaying with the branch his own weight 

 set in motion. The two watched in 

 silence; then came a strain of exquisite 

 song, clear and high. A moment later 

 and it was repeated. "I hoped he'd do 

 that," she breathed, then laughed 

 softly from sheer happiness. "How per- 

 fect!" she said. "He sang it 'twice 

 over' for you, too! There's 'England 

 in April' and if you want the ' elm tree in 

 tiny leaf,' it's down 

 yonder." No one but 

 Robert Browning would 

 have remembered how 

 the thrush loves the top 

 of a spray and loves 

 to swing, like the bob- 

 o-links do on the tops 

 of the tall grasses. 



"It was perfect," 

 said the young fellow 

 softly. They waited, 

 but the thrush didn't 

 sing again; instead he 

 flew to a more distant 

 pear tree. 



Roberta came to her- 

 self. Perhaps a thought 

 of Aunt Adelaide 

 flashed across her mind, 

 and her probable opin- 

 ion. 



"I must go. I am 

 quite sure you are not 

 trespassing," she said 

 formally, "but it might 

 be well to stop as you 

 go back and ask Mr. 



Worthington's permission. He would 

 prefer it." 



She nodded slightly, turned, and dis- 

 appeared past the hedge and among 

 young dogwoods. 



Paul Fielding looked after her, but 

 she had vanished. He turned to the 

 hedges and blossoming trees. 



"Lordy! but that was pretty," he 



said. ' ' I wonder who- ' ' He tore up 



his sketch and began working rapidly, 

 sketching, suggesting, the hedge and the 

 flowering trees and against the hedge was 

 a girl's outline with a splash of copper- 

 color where her head should be. 



Meanwhile, Miss Davenant was walk- 

 ing swiftly along a narrow foot-path that 

 skirted the oak woods. She looked 

 back. No one was in sight. Then she 

 began running, lightly and easily with 

 the sureness of an Indian, until the path 

 ended at a wagon track. Flushed and 

 breathing quickly, she stopped running, 

 put up her hand to her hair, the im- 

 memorial feminine gesture, for was she 

 not nearing Peter's "gang "and the secre- 

 tary to the head of Roseberry Gardens 

 must be dignified as befitted that ancient 

 place? Presently she saw the men. 



One of them, evidently the head work- 

 man, left his group and approached. 



"Good morning, Peter," she said. 

 "It's just a few things for an order of 

 Brian's that are over here." She handed 

 him a slip. " Bring these over and mark 

 them for him. That's all." 



"It was too pretty an errand for 

 Barney," she said to herself as she turned 

 away, and walked down the wagon 

 track which was a short cut to the office. 

 . It was a lovely bit of road. There were 

 violets in the grass alongside and wild 

 growth of young oak and maple and 

 witch hazel arched the narrow road 

 overhead. Presently she stopped, listen- 

 ing. There was the thrush again. 



"I oughtn't to have spoken that way 

 without an introduction," she said to 

 herself, ruefully. "I wish I didn't do 

 things first and think afterward! But 

 it was the thrush's fault!" 



Chapter VI 



Promptly' at 9:15 every morning Mr. 

 Horace Worthington's coach, driven by 

 a frosty-haired negro, Peregrine Pink, 

 drove up to the office door. 



"Whoa-dar!" the young secretary 

 would hear through the open window in 

 tremendous tones. "Whoa-dar!" and 

 Peregrine would rein in the placid, 

 leisurely gray horse as fiercely as if he 

 were a battle-impassioned stallion and 

 Peregrine himself a cavalry officer. 



Then the office door opened, Mr. 

 Worthington would come in, glance at 

 the clock, compare it with his watch. 



