ound that even a great
poet's rage on behalf of man against God was often turgid enough. It
was, however, a hopeful sign that he could still perceive what puddles
these aerial fountains of song often left behind them, and he was glad
to find that not all the value of critical experience had been destroyed
by the imperative need to readjust his values of reality.

Birdwood brought a note from Pauline just when Guy had burned his
effusion of the night before and come to the conclusion that as a
polemical and atheistic rhymester he was of the very poorest quality.

The gardener was inclined to be chatty, and when the weather and the
dowers in season had been discussed at length, he observed that Miss
Pauline was not looking so well as she ought to look.

"You'll have to speak to her about it, Mr. Hazlenut."

Birdwood had never learned to give Guy his proper name, and there had
been many jokes between him and Pauline about this, and many vows by Guy
that one day he would address the gardener as Birdseed. How far away
such foolish little jokes were seeming now.

"It's been a tiring Spring," said Guy. "The east wind...."

"Her cheeks isn't nothing like so rosy as they was," said the gardener.
"You'll excuse the liberty I'm taking in mentioning them, but having
known Miss Pauline since she couldn't walk.... Why I happen to mention
it is that there was a certain somebody up in the town who passed the
remark to me and, I having to give him a piece of my mind pretty sharp
on account of him talking so free, it sort of stuck in my memory and....
You don't think she's middling?"

"Oh no, I think she's quite well," said Guy.

"Well, as long as you aren't worrited, I don't suppose I've got any call
to be worrited; only any one can't help it a bit when they see witches'
cheeks on a young lady. She certainly does look middling, but maybe, as
you say, it is this unnatural east wind."

Birdwood touched his cap and retired, but his words had struck at Guy
remorsefully while he walked away to a corner of the orchard reading
Pauline's letter. The starlings were piping a sweet monotony of Spring,
and daffodils, that he and she had planted last Summer when they came
back from Ladingford, haunted his path.

MY DARLING,--Why haven't you been to see me this morning? Why
weren't you in the orchard? I stayed such a long while in the
churchyard, but you never came. If I said anything yesterday that
hurt your feelings,