advantageous season, and the sale had been postponed till early fall in
the hope of attracting from a distance lovers of old furniture.
Thus the place was left untenanted. Weeds ran riot in the garden, the
grass crept stealthily over the walks, and the clematis and honeysuckle on
the low stone wall mingled their sweetness in undisturbed luxuriance. The
Arden Foresters were free to come and go as they chose, the only other
trespasser being Celia Fair, who when her household tasks were done often
brought her sewing to Patricia's Arbor, with the feeling that her days
there were numbered.
At the Whittredges' Genevieve was making her preparations to leave soon
after the return of her brother Allan, who was looked for any day. Her
mother's restless mind had taken a sudden fitful interest in some
genealogical question, and welcoming anything that diverted her thoughts
from herself had thrown all her energies into the subject, spending most
of her time at her desk or in reading old letters.
Rosalind was left to go her ways; if she appeared at meal-time, no
questions were asked, Miss Herbert, indeed, shook her head at such
liberty. A girl of Rosalind's age should be learning something useful,
instead of running about the village or poring over story books. She could
not know that with a certain old play for a textbook the children she
thought so harum-scarum were learning brave lessons this summer.
Rosalind was happy. The hours when she was not with one or all of these
new friends of hers were few, and these she usually spent in the garden,
which she was beginning to love, with a book. She had discovered some old
books of her father's, given to him in his boyhood, with his name and the
date in them, in itself enough to cast a halo over the most stupid tale.
When the sun shone on the garden seat beside the white birch, there was
another favorite spot in the shade of a tall cedar, where an occasional
stir of wind brought the spray from the fountain against her face.
Yes, in spite of the puzzles, Rosalind was beginning to love Friendship.
It was weeks since Great-uncle Allan had seemed to frown on her, and even
the griffins wore a friendlier look; as for the rose, she had come to
doubt the evidence of her own eyes since that afternoon at the magician's
when Miss Fair had shown such friendliness.
The summer so dreary in prospect to Maurice bade fair to be endurable
after all. Rosalind's gray eyes, now merry, now serious,
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