and through the air toward
the rose-arbor no wind of heaven could tell. Nor could it tell why Uncle
Cornie should choose to follow it and stand in the doorway of the arbor
until the "Eden" dinner-hour called all three of the dwellers, Adam and
Eve and this good little snake, to the cool dining-room and what goes
with it.

Twilight and moonlight were melting into one, and all the sweet odors
of dew-kissed blossoms, the good-night twitter of homing birds, the
mists rising above the Winnowoc Valley, the shadows of shrubbery on the
lawn, and the darkling outline of the tall maples made "Eden" as
beautiful now as in the full sunlight.

Jerry Swaim sat in the doorway of the rose-arbor, watching Uncle Cornie
throwing his discus again along the smooth white clover sod. Aunt Jerry
had trailed off with Eugene to the far side of the spacious grounds to
see the lily-ponds where the pink lotuses were blooming.

"Young folks mustn't be together too much. They'll get tired of each
other too quickly. I used to get bored to death having Cornelius forever
around." Aunt Jerry philosophized, considering herself as wise in the
affairs of the heart as she was shrewd in affairs of the pocketbook. She
would make Jerry and Gene want to be together before they had the chance
again.

So Jerry Swaim sat alone, watching the lights and shadows on the lawn,
only half conscious of Uncle Cornie's presence out there, until he
suddenly followed his discus as it rolled toward the arbor and lay flat
at her feet. Instead of picking it up, he dropped down on the stone step
beside his niece and sat without speaking until Jerry forgot his
presence entirely. It was his custom to sit without speaking, and to be
forgotten.

Jerry's mind was full of many things. Life had opened a new door to her
that afternoon, and something strange and sweet had suddenly come
through it. Life had always opened pleasant doors to her, save that one
through which her father and mother had slipped away--a door that closed
and shut her from them and God, whose Providence had robbed her so
cruelly of what was her own. But no door ever showed her as fair a vista
as the one now opening before her dreamy gaze.

She glanced unseeingly at the old man sitting beside her. Then across
her memory Aunt Jerry's words came drifting, "Being twenty-one doesn't
make you too old to listen to me--and your uncle Cornie," and, "You'll
appreciate what I--and Uncle Cornie--can do for you."

Uncle