y coincidentally that you are here
now, when one comes to reflect."

To his relief, George began to talk.

"It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung
together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The
twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--"

"You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you
a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't
do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where
did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?"

"Italy."

"And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss
Honeychurch?"

"National Gallery."

"Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence
and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our
friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it."

"It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it
Italy if it makes you less unhappy."

Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was
infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.

"And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is
still to write."

Silence.

Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you
have come."

Silence.

"Here we are!" called Freddy.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.

"In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically.

They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,
set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain
the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the
rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a
beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.

"It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies
are necessary for the pond."

George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his
boots.

"Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in
seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?"

No one knew, or seemed to care.

"These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of
water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or
brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.

"Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped him