borders, and the
sunk garden, all slumbering in the promise of beauty to come, last of
all to the rockery, already ablaze with the gold of alyssum and the
purple of aubretia, the little pockets between the stones filled with
every variety of spring bulb: daffodils of yellow, white, and orange,
flaring tulips, early hyacinths, and many-coloured anemones.

After the unbroken greenery of the higher terraces, the rockery appeared
a riot of colour, as if the very spirit of spring had chosen it for an
abode. The air was sweet with fragrance, the sloping banks formed a
protection against the breeze; it seemed an ideal position in which to
pause and rest.

"Where," Dane asked tentatively, "does one sit?"

"Wherever one can. On the least bumpy stone within reach," Cassandra
replied. She seated herself in illustration upon a boulder covered with
a cushion of shaded moss, and immediately began snipping leaves from a
shrub of scented verbena, the which she inhaled with languid enjoyment.
"Just avoid stalks, and you are all right. Saxifrages _like_ being sat
on; they are even grateful if you stamp upon them with strong boots, so
you need feel no scruples." She held the lemon leaf poised in air,
studying his face with curious eyes. "You are rather given to scruples,
aren't you? Your conscience is very active!"

"I'm afraid it is," Dane said regretfully, as he in his turn selected an
impromptu seat. "My people were all Friends, so it's an inheritance. A
Nonconformist conscience has a terrible persistence; there's no living
it down. It's been a handicap to me many times, obtruding itself when
it wasn't wanted. One doesn't seem to have much personal connection
with one's conscience. It seems so entirely independent of will, that
there's no kudos attached to having a lively one, or no blame if he's
quiescent. Mine happens to be of the persistent kind, and particularly
long-lived. He was a worry to me in the nursery; he's a worry to-day.
I don't think--" he paused for a moment, as if judicially weighing his
words--"I don't think I've ever been able to do wrong with any real
satisfaction!"

They looked at each other and laughed, but Cassandra hastily lowered her
eyes, affecting to bend over a further bed in search of a new fragrance.
In reality she was afraid that her eyes might show the tenderness of
her heart. The man's expression as he looked at her had been so full of
goodness and honesty that the hidden impulse had