WISCONSIN ALUMNI MAGAZINE.


Who ever heard of a love story with-
out a garden? And it will be a 'dif-
ferent' garden from all the rest-the
trees will be higher, and the shadows
will be made differently, and instead
of echoes there will be music. And
there will be fountains-fountains
everywhere and when one has gone
in the garden, a fountain will spring
up at the gate and no one can get
out-ever. What do you think of
that for a garden?" asked Peleas.
  "I think," said I, "that the garden
we will come to will be Miss
Deborah Ware's."
  For, in fact, I was carrying a mes-
sage to Miss Deborah Ware, a kins-
woman of my mother's, and I had
met Peleas only by some heavenly
chance as he crossed the common.
  "And who is Miss Deborah Ware ?"
asked Peleas, doubtfully, as if weigh-
ing the matter of entering her gar-
den.
  "She owns a gold thimble," I ex-
plained, "that once belonged to Marie
Antoinette. She prefers wooden sa-
bots to all other shoes. And she
paints most beautiful pictures."
  "Ah," said Peleas, enlightened, "so
  that is who she is? And how does
she look, pray?"
  "I am certain that she looks like
the Queen of Sheba," I told him.
"And, moreover, all her caps are
crown-shaped."
"Now I know how the Queen of
Sheba looks," cried Peleas, triumph-
antly. "She looks like the crowns
of Miss Deborah's caps. Do you
happen to know what the toll is, to
leave this lane?"
   As I did not know-did anybody
 ever know?-and as we were even
 then at the end of the lane, my
 ignorance was rebuked, and I paid
 the toll, and, I fancy, repeated the
 lesson-it was a matter of honor to
 the sun and the wild roses not to let
 it be otherwise. And we crossed
 the West Meadow by the long way,
 and at the last-at the very last, and
 nearly noon !-we reached the cot-
 tage where Miss Deborah Ware had


come to spend the summer and en-
gage in the unmaidenly pursuit of
painting pictures.
  To tell the truth, our summer
community of ggod Knickerbocker
folk were inclined to question Miss
Deborah's good taste. Not that
they objected to the paint, but the
lack of virtue seemed to lie in the
canvas. If   Miss   Deborah   had
painted candle-shades, or china por-
ringers, or watered silk panels, or
flower-pots, no one, I think, would
have murmured. But when they
learned that she painted pictures,
they spread and lifted their fans.
  "Miss Deborah Ware would ape
the men," they said sternly. And
when they saw her studio apron
made of ticking and having a bib,
they tried to remonstrate with my
mother, her kinswoman.
  "She is a great beauty, for her
age,"   said  the   women. "But
Beauty is as Beauty does," they re-
minded her.
  "Deborah does as Deborah is,"
my mother answered, smiling.
  Miss Deborah was wearing the
apron of ticking that morning that
we went to see her-Peleas and I,
who, I fancy, were rather basely
making her an excuse for the joy
of our morning together. But Miss
Deborah would have been the last
to condemn that. She was in a
room overlooking the valley, and a
flood of north light poured upon her
easel and idle palette. Miss De-
borah was breakfasting; and she ex-
plained that she had had a great fit
for working very e'arly; and she
gave us some delicious tea and
crumpets.
  "This is the tea," she told us,
  "that Cupid and Psyche always
  drank. At least I suppose that is
  what the Japanese label says. Or
  perhaps it says Aucassin and Nicol-
  ette. . . I am a bit back in my
  Japanese." And immediately Miss
  Deborah nodded at me a little, and
  murmured  that I crimsoned as
  prettily as eith-er of these ladies.


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