All that next June day I worked in my garden, in a dream, my hands performing their tasks mechanically. I ran the wheel hoe between the rows of newly planted raspberries and blackberries, to mulch the soil, without consciousness of the future fruit which was supposed to delight me.

Avoiding Mike, who would have insisted on conversing had I worked near him, I next went down to the brook below the orchard, armed with a rake, brush scythe, and axe, and located the spot on the stone wall which exactly faced my front door. I marked it with a stake, and thinned out the ash-leaved maples which grew like a fringe between the wall and the brook, so that the best ones could spread into more attractive trees, and so that a semicircular space was also cleared which could surround the pool, as it were, and in which I could place a bench, up against the foliage, to face the door of the house. From the door you would look over the pool to the bench. From the bench you would look over the pool and up the slope through the orchard to the house entrance. After I had the bench site correctly located, I saw that the four flower beds which Miss Goodwin and I had made were at least four feet out of centre, and would all have to be moved. But that was too much of a task for my present mood. I left them as they were, and busied myself with rooting out undeniable weeds and carting off the slash and rubbish.

My mind was not on the task. Over and over I was asking myself the question, "Do I love her? What permanence is there in a spring passion, amid gardens and thrush songs, for a girl who caresses the sympathies by her naive delight in the novelty of country life? How much of my feeling for her is passion, and how much is sympathy, even pity?"

Over and over I turned these questions, while my hands worked mechanically. And over and over, too, I will be honest and admit, the selfish incrustations of bachelor habits imposed their opposition to the thought of union. I had bought the farm to be my own lord and master; here I was to work, to create masterpieces of literature, to plan gardens, to play golf, to smoke all over the house, to toil all night and sleep all day if I so desired, to wear soft shirts and never dress for dinner, to maintain my own habits, my own individuality, undisturbed. What had been so pleasant, so tinglingly pleasant, for a day, a week — the presence of the girl in the garden, in the house, the rustle of her skirt, the sound of her fingers on the keys — would it be always pleasant? What if one wished to escape from it, and there were no escape? Passions pall; life, work, ambitions, the need of solitude for creation, the individual soul, go on.

"All of which means," I thought, laying down my brush scythe and gazing into the brook, "that I am not sure of myself. And if I am not sure of myself, do I really love her? And if I am not sure of that, I must wait."

That resolution, the first definite thing my mind had laid hold on, came to me as the sun was sinking toward the west. I went to the house, changed my clothes, and hastened up the road to meet her, curiously eager for a man in doubt.

She was coming out of the door as I crossed the bit of lawn, dressed not in the working clothes which she had worn on our gardening days, but all in white, with a lavender ribbon at her throat. She smiled at me brightly and ran down the steps.

"Go to New York — but see Twin Fires first," she laughed. "I'm all ready for the tour."

I had not quite expected so much lightness of heart from her, and I was a little piqued, perhaps, as I answered, "You don't seem very sorry that you are seeing it for the last time."

She smiled into my face. "All pleasant things have to end," she said, "so why be glum about it?"

"Do they have to end?" said I.

"In my experience, always," she nodded.

I was silent. My resolution, which I confess had wavered a little when she came through the doorway, was fixed again. Just the light banter in her tone had done it. We walked down the road, and went first around the house to take a look at the lawn and rose trellis. The young grass was already a frail green from the house to the roses, the flowers around the white sundial pedestal, while not yet in bloom, showed a mass of low foliage, the nasturtiums were already trying to cling, with the aid of strings, to the bird bath (which I had forgotten to fill), and the rose trellis, coloured green by the painters before they departed, was even now hidden slightly at the base by the vines of the new roses.

"There," said I, pointing to it, "is the child of your brain, your aqueduct of roses, which you refuse to see in blossom."

"The child of my hands, too; don't forget that!" she laughed.

"Of our hands," I corrected.

"The ghost of Rome in roses," she said, half to herself. "It will be very lovely another year, when the vines have covered it."

"And it will be then, I trust," said I, "rather less like 'the rose of beauty on the brow of chaos.' The lawn will look like a lawn by then, and possibly I shall have achieved a sundial plate."

"Possibly you will," said she, with a suspicious twinkle. "And possibly you'll have remembered to fill your bird bath."

She turned abruptly into the house and emerged with a pitcher of water, tiptoeing over the frail, new grass to the bath, which she filled to the brim, pouring the remainder upon the vines at the base.

"My last activity shall be for the birds," she smiled, as she came back with the pitcher. As if in gratitude, a bird came winging out of the orchard behind her, and dipped his breast and bill in the water.

"The darling!" I heard her exclaim, under her breath.

We took the pitcher inside, and I saw her glance at the flowers in the vases. "I ought to get you some fresh ones," she said.

"No," I answered. "Those shall stay a long while, in memory of the good fairy. Now I will show you my house. You have never seen my house above the first story."

"It isn't proper," she laughed. "I shouldn't be even here, in the south room."

"But you have been here many times."

Again she laughed. "Stupid! But Mrs. Pillig wasn't here then!"

"Oh!" said I, a light dawning on my masculine stupidity, "I begin to realize the paradoxes of propriety. And now I see at last why I shouldn't have asked you to pick the paint for the dining-room — when I did."

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked into my face with sudden gravity. "I wonder if you do understand?" she answered. Slowly a half-wistful smile crept into the corners of her mouth, and she shook her head. "No, you don't; you don't at all."

Then her old laugh came bubbling up. "I suspect Mrs. Pillig is more of an authority on pies than propriety," she said in a cautious voice, "and, besides, I'm going away to-morrow, and, besides, I don't care anyway. Lead on."

We went up the uncarpeted front stairs, into the square upper hall which was lighted by an east window over the front door. I showed her first the spare room on the northeast corner, which connected with the bath, and then the second front chamber opposite, which was not yet furnished even with a bed. Then we entered my chamber, where the western sun was streaming in. She stood in the door a second, looking about, and then advanced and surveyed the bed.

"The bedclothes aren't tucked in right," she said.

"I know it," I answered sadly. "I have to fix them myself every night. Mrs. Pillig is better on pies."

The girl leaned over and remade my monastic white cot, giving the pillow a final pat to smooth it. Then she inspected the shingles and old photographs on the walls, turning from an undergraduate picture of me, in a group, to scan my face, and shaking her head.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Don't tell me I'm getting bald."

"No, not bald," she answered, "but your eyes don't see visions as they did then."

I looked at her, startled a little. "What makes you say that?" I asked.

"Forgive me," she replied quickly. "I meant nothing."

"You meant what you said," I answered, moving close to her, "and it is true. It is true of all men, and all women, in a way — of all save the chosen few who are the poets and seers. 'Shades of the prison house begin to close' — you know that shadow, too, I guess. I have no picture of you when you were younger. No — you are still the poet; you see aqueducts of roses. So you think I'm prosy now!"

"I didn't say that," she answered, very low.

"One vision I've seen," I went on, "one vision, lately. It was — it was —— "

I broke abruptly off, remembering suddenly my resolve.

"Come," said I, "and I'll show you Mrs. Pillig's quarters."

She followed in silence, and peeped with me into the chambers in the ell, smiling a little as she saw Peter's clothes scattered on the floor and bed. Then, still in silence, and with the golden light of afternoon streaming across the slopes of my farm, we entered the pines by the woodshed, and followed the new path along by the potato field and the pasture wall, pausing here and there to gather the first wild rose buds, and turning down through the cloister at the south.

As we slipped into the corner of the tamarack swamp my heart was beating high, my pulses racing with the recollection of all the tense moments in that grove ahead, since first I met her there. I know not with what feelings she entered. It was plain now even to me that she was masking them in a mood of lightness. She danced ahead over the new plank walk, and laughed back at me over her shoulder as she disappeared into the pines. A second later I found her sitting on the stone I had placed by the pool.

She looked up out of the corners of her eyes. "I should think this would be a good place to wade," she said.

"So it might," said I. "Do you want to try it?"

"Do you want to run along to the turn by the road and wait?" The eyes still mocked me.

"No," said I.

She shook her head sadly. "And I did so want to wade," she sighed.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really, yes. I won't have a chance again for — oh, never, maybe."

"Then of course I'll go ahead." I stepped over the brook, out of sight. A moment later I heard a soft splashing of the water, and a voice called, "I'm only six now. Oh, it's such fun — and so cold!"

I made no reply. In fancy I could see her white feet in the water, her face tipped up in the shadows, her eyes large with delight. How sweet she was, how desirable! I stood lost in a rosy reverie, when suddenly I felt her beside me, and turned to meet her smile.

"How you like the brook," I said.

"How I love it!" she exclaimed. "Don't think me silly, but it really says secret things to me."

"Such secrets as the stream told to Rossetti?" I asked.

She looked away. "I said secret things," she answered.

We moved on, around the bend by the road where the little picture of far hills came into view, and back into the dusk of the thickest pines. At the second crossing of the brook, I took her hand to steady her over the slippery stones, and when we were across, the mood and memories of the place had their way with us, and our hands did not unclasp. We walked on so together to the spot where we first had met, and where first the thrush had sounded for us his elfin clarion. There we stopped and listened, but there was no sound save the whisper of the pines.

"The pines sound like soft midnight surf on the shore," she whispered.

"I want the thrush," I whispered back. "I want the thrush!"

"Yes," she said, raising her eyes to mine, "oh, yes!"

And then, as we waited, our eyes meeting, suddenly he sang, far off across the tamaracks, one perfect call, and silence again. Her face was a glimmering radiance in the dusk. Her hand was warm in mine. Slowly my face sank toward hers, and our lips met — met for an instant when we were not masters of ourselves, when the bird song and the whispering pines wrought their pagan spell upon us.

Another instant, and she stood away from me, one hand over her mouth, one hand on her panting breast, and fright in her eyes. Then, as suddenly, she laughed. It was hardly a nervous laugh. It welled up with the familiar gurgle from her throat.

"John Upton," she said, "you are a bad man. That wasn't what the thrush said at all."

"I misunderstood," said I, recovering more slowly, and astounded by her mood.

"I'll not reproach you, since I, a philologist, misunderstood for a second myself," she responded. "Hark!"

There was a sudden sound of steps and crackling twigs in the grove behind us, and Buster emerged up the path, hot on our scent. He made a dab with his tongue at my hand, and then fell upon Miss Goodwin. She sank to her knees and began to caress him, very quickly, so that I could not see her face.

"Stella," said I, "Buster has made a friend of you. That's always a great compliment from a dog."

She kept her face buried in his neck an instant longer, and then her eyes lifted to mine. "Yes — John," she said. "And now I must go home to pack my trunk."

"Let me drive you to the station in the morning," said I, as we emerged from the grove, in this sudden strange, calm intimacy, when no word had been spoken, and I, at least, was quite in the dark as to her feelings.

She shook her head. "No, I go too early for you. You — you mustn't try to see me."

For just a second her voice wavered. She stopped for a last look at Twin Fires. "Nice house, nice garden, nice brook," she said, and added, with a little smile, "nice rose trellis." Then we walked up the road, and at Bert's door she put out her hand.

"Good-bye," she said.

"Good-bye," I answered.

Her eyes looked frankly into mine. There was nothing there but smiling friendship. The fingers did not tremble in my grasp.

"I shall write," said I, controlling my voice with difficulty, "and send you pictures of the garden."

"Yes, do."

She was gone. I walked slowly back to my dwelling. I had kept my resolution. Yet how strangely I had kept it! What did it mean? Had I been strong? No. Had she made me keep it? Who could say? All had been so sudden — the kiss, her springing away, her abrupt, astonishing laughter. But she had not reproached me, she had not been righteously angry, nor, still less, absurd. She had thought it, perhaps, but the mood of the place and hour, and understood. That was fine, generous! Few women, I thought, would be capable of it. Stella! How pleasant it had been to say the name! Then the memory of her kiss came over me like a wave, and my supper stood neglected, and all that evening I sat staring idly at my manuscripts and stroking Buster's head.

Yes, I had kept my resolution — and felt like a fool, a happy, hopeless fool!