ed, as if we were
crossing the threshold of some private chamber, and ghosts of old days
were hustling past us. Flowers there were, everywhere; but they drooped
and sprawled in an overgrowth hinting at indifference; the scent of
heliotrope possessed the place, as if actually hung in solid festoons
from tall untrimmed hedge to hedge. No basket-chairs, shawls, or novels
dotted the lawn with colour; and on the garden-front of the house
behind, the blinds were mostly drawn. A grey old sun-dial dominated the
central sward, and we moved towards it instinctively, as the most human
thing visible. An antique motto ran round it, and with eyes and fingers
we struggled at the decipherment.

"TIME: TRYETH: TROTHE:" spelt out Harold at last. "I wonder what that
means?"

I could not enlighten him, nor meet his further questions as to the
inner mechanism of the thing, and where you wound it up.

I had seen these instruments before, of course, but had never fully
understood their manner of working.

We were still puzzling our heads over the contrivance, when I became
aware that Medea herself was moving down the path from the house.
Dark-haired, supple, of a figure lightly poised and swayed, but pale and
listless--I knew her at once, and having come out to find her, naturally
felt no surprise at all. But Harold, who was trying to climb on the top
of the sun-dial, having a cat-like fondness for the summit of things,
started and fell prone, barking his chin and filling the pleasance with
lamentation.

Medea skimmed the ground swallow-like, and in a moment was on her knees
comforting him,--wiping the dirt out of his chin with her own dainty
handkerchief,--and vocal with soft murmur of consolation.

"You needn't take on so about him," I observed, politely. "He'll cry for
just one minute, and then he'll be all right."

My estimate was justified. At the end of his regulation time Harold
stopped crying suddenly, like a clock that had struck its hour; and with
a serene and cheerful countenance wriggled out of Medea's embrace, and
ran for a stone to throw at an intrusive blackbird.

"O you boys!" cried Medea, throwing wide her arms with abandonment.
"Where have you dropped from? How dirty you are! I've been shut up here
for a thousand years, and all that time I've never seen any one under a
hundred and fifty! Let's play at something, at once!"

"Rounders is a good game," I suggested. "Girls can play at rounders. And
we could serve up t