, also, that I do not steal your
roses."

The man shook his head, and his sharp, green-gray eyes were twinkling
merrily, now--as a boy in the spirit of some amusing venture. "Oh, no!
Czar said nothing at all about trespassers. He did tell me, though, about
a wonderful creature that comes every day to visit the garden. A nymph, he
thought it was--a beautiful Oread from away up there among the silver
peaks and purple canyons--or, perhaps, a lovely Dryad from among the oaks
and pines. I felt quite sure, though, that the nymph must be an Oread;
because he said that she comes to gather colors from the roses, and that
every morning and every evening she uses these colors to tint the highest
peaks and crests of her mountains--making them so beautiful that mortals
would always begin and end each day by looking up at them. Of course, the
moment I saw, you I knew who you were."

Unaffectedly pleased as a child at his quaint fancy, she answered merrily,
"And so you hid among the roses to trap me, I suppose."

"Indeed, I did not," he retorted indignantly. "I was forced to fly from a
wicked Flibbertigibbet who seeks to torment me. I barely escaped with my
life, and came into the garden to hide and recover from my fright. Then I
heard the most wonderful music and guessed that you must be somewhere
around. Then Czar, who had come with me to hide from the Flibbertigibbet
in the house, left me. I looked to see where he had gone, and so I saw,
sure enough, that it was you. All my life, you know, I have wanted to
catch a real nymph; but never could. So when you came into the arbor, I
couldn't resist trying again. And, now, here we are--with Czar to say it
is all right."

At his fanciful words, she laughed again, and her cheeks flushed with
pleasure. Then, with grave sweetness, she said, "Won't you sit down,
please, and let me explain seriously?"

"I suppose you must pretend to be like the rest of us," he returned with
an air of resignation, "but all the same, Czar and I know you are not."

When they were seated, she said simply, "My name is Sibyl Andres. This
place used to be my home. My mother planted this garden with her own
hands. Many of these roses were brought from our home in the mountains,
where I was born, and where I lived with father and mother until five
years ago. I feel, still, as though the old place in the hills were my
real home, and every summer, when nearly every one goes away from
Fairlands and there is nothing f