or me to do, Myra Willard and I go up
there, for as long as we can. You see, I teach music and play in the
churches. Miss Willard taught me. She and mother are the only teachers I
have ever had. After father's death, mother and Myra and I lived here for
two years; then mother died, and Myra and I moved to that little house
over there, because we could not afford to keep this place. But the man
who bought it gave me permission to care for the garden; so I come almost
every day--through that little gate in the corner of the hedge, there--to
tend the roses. Since you men moved in, though, I come, mostly, in the
morning--early--before you are up. I only slip in, sometimes, for a few
minutes, in the afternoon--when I think it will be safe. You see, being
strangers, I--I feared you would think me bold--if I--if I asked to come.
So many people really wouldn't understand, you know."

Conrad Lagrange's deep voice was very gentle as he said, "Mr. King and I
have known, all the time, that we had no real claim upon this garden,
Miss Andres." Then, with his whimsical smile, he added, "You see, we felt,
from the very first, that it was haunted by a lovely spirit that would
vanish utterly if we intruded. That is why we have been so careful. We did
not want to frighten you away. And besides, you know, Czar told us that it
was all right!"

The blue eyes shone through a bright mist as she answered the man's kindly
words. "You _are_ good, Mr. Lagrange. And all the time it was really _you_
of whom I was so afraid."

"Why me, more than my friend?" he asked, regarding her thoughtfully.

She colored a little under his searching gaze, but answered with that
childlike frankness that was so much a part of her winsome charm, "Why,
because your friend is an _artist_--I thought _he_ would be sure to
understand. I knew, of course, that you were the famous author; everybody
talks about your living here." She seemed to think that her words
explained.

"You mean that you were afraid of me because I am famous?" he asked
doubtfully.

"Oh no," she answered, "not because you are famous. I mean--I was not
afraid of your _fame_," she smiled.

"And now," said the novelist decisively, "you must tell me at once--do you
read my books?" He waited, as though much depended upon her answer.

The blue eyes were gazing at him with that wide, unafraid look as she
answered sadly, "No, sir. I have tried, but I can't. They spoil my music.
They hurt me, somehow, a