d one of the most trying of either sex," added his daughter. "When I
came home my last holiday, she asked me what I learned at school, and I
danced a skirt dance for her."

"I always told you you spoiled Eugie to death, Tom," said Miss Chris in
justification of her own responsibility. "In my day no young lady knew
what a skirt dance was."

"But that's what I learned at school," protested Eugenia.

The general, feeling that the conversation excluded Nicholas, renewed
his attack.

"What do you think of raising garden products?" he inquired affably.
Then Eugenia rose, and he submissively retired.

"We aren't going to talk farming any more," said the girl. "Nick and I
are going into the garden for roses," and she descended the steps,
followed by Nicholas, who was beginning for the first time to breathe
freely.

"Tell your father to look into the truck-growing," was the general's
parting shot.

The garden was flushed with the riot of autumn. Over the little
whitewashed fence double rows of hollyhocks and sunflowers nodded their
heavy heads, and bordering the narrow walk were lines of chrysanthemums
and dahlias. October roses, the richest of the year, bloomed and dropped
in the quaint old squares where the long vegetable rows began. At the
end of the straight, overgrown walk the hop vines on the fence threw out
a pungent odour.

"Papa wants to have the garden ploughed," said Eugenia. "He says it
takes too much time to hoe it. Give me your knife, please."

He opened the blade, and she stooped to cut off a crimson dahlia while
the Indian summer sunshine slanted from the west upon her dark head and
white dress. Over all was the faint violet haze of the season, hanging
above the gay old garden like a delicate effluvium from autumns long
decayed.

"There aren't many old-time gardens left," said Nicholas regretfully,
"but I like this one best of all. I always think of you in the midst of
it."

"Yes, we used to gather calacanthus blossoms and trade them for taffy at
school. The bushes are almost all dead now. That is the only one left."

She laid the knife upon the grass and raised her arms to fasten a yellow
chrysanthemum in her hair. As it lay against her ear it cast a clear,
golden light upon her cheek, as warm as the late sunshine.

"Flowers suit you," he said.

"Do they?" she smiled in a quick, pleased way. "Is it because I love
them?"

"It is because you are beautiful," he answered bluntly.

Some one had