Jruly.]


LZ1 ff/UIVYiAi1V (


-'Thn "They--tell me that you
two are betrothed," she said, lean-
ing, back in her chair. "Why is
that ?"P
  At that I blushed again, and so I-
have no doubt did Peleas, for we
had not so much as said that word
in each other's presence, and to
hear it pronounced aloud was the
niost heavenly torture *.
  "I suppose you are very much in
love," she answered her question
mieditatively. "Well, I believe you.
I believe you so thoroughly that I
would like to paint you. What
barbarism it is," she went on, "that
they don't allow young lovers to
have their portraits painted together
while they are betrothed! Could
there be a more delicious bit of his-
tory added to any portrait gallery?
And what if the marriage never did
come off-saving your presence?
The history might be all the more
delicious for the separation, and
the canvas would be quite as valu-
able. I am at this moment paint-
  in tw+er        ,ite+ esntfl


whose people flatter me by being
delighted. I think that I must
really speak to your mother, child,
about painting you," she said.
  At that I stole a glance at Peleas
and  surprised  him  at the  same
pastime. And in that moment I
do not think that either the history
or the taste of the portrait greatly
occupied us; for neither of us could
pass with serenity the idea of the
sittings. Together, mornings, in
that still, sun-flooded studio! What
joy  for  those other lovers! In
those days one had only to mention
an  impossibly romantic situation
for Peleas and me to live it out, in
imagvination, to its minutest joy.
  "Of course she will not consent,"
added  Miss Deborah, philosoph-
ically, "so if I were you I would
have another crumpet. My crump-
ets are considerably better than my
portraits. And my cook does the
crumpets."


F' GARDENS                     387

  She leaned forward in her low
chair, and Peleas and I looked at
her in a kind of awe. She was like
mother's sweet-william  that never
would blossom in the seed-book
colors, but came out unexpectedly
in the most amazing variegations.
She sat with one long, slim hand
propping her face-a face attenu-
ated, whimsical in line, with full
red mouth and eyes that never
bothered with what went on before
them so long as this did not ob-
struct their view.
   "What do you think of that
 picture over your heads?" she
 asked.
   We looked, glad to be set at our
 ease. And   then   Peleas and   I
 turned to each other in delicious
 trepidation. For there, on     the
 Wall of Miss Deborah's studio, was
 a picture of the very garden that
 we two had meant to find! We
 recognized it at once-our garden,
 where Peleas had said the spring
 lane would lead between the hedge-
 rows, and where the shadows would
 fall differently, and the echoes be
 long drawn to music.
   I cannot tell what there may have
 been about that picture so to move
 us, and to this day I do not know
 what place it strove to show. But,
 oh! I remember the green of it, the
 oender, early green, th-e half-evident
 boughs of indeterminate bloom, the
 sense of freshness, of sweet surprise
 at some meaning of the year, the
 well, the shrine, the shepherd with
 his pipes-the incommunicable spirit
 of rhythnl and of echo.
   "Do you like it?" asked Miss
 Deborah, smiling; and      I  was
 abashed to find my eyes filled with
 tears.
   "I think that this," answered
 Peleas, quaintly, "will be the soul
 of spring, Miss Deborah; and che
 outdoors, this morning, will be the
 body."
   "I dare say," said Miss Deborah,
 nodding; "though I fancy more


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