er as
I watched the shadow of her head flit across the faded walls above the
fine old wainscoting, from which the white paint was peeling in places.
Her touch, swift and unfaltering, released some spirit of beauty and
cheerfulness which must have lain imprisoned for a generation in the
superb old rooms. On the floor with us there were no other tenants, but
when I heard an occasional sound in the room above, I remembered that
the agent had told me of an aristocratic, though poverty-stricken,
maiden lady, who was starving up there in the midst of some rare pieces
of old Chippendale furniture, and with the portrait of an English
ancestress by Gainsborough hanging above her fireless hearth.

"The baby is asleep, so Aunt Euphronasia and I are cooking supper," said
Sally, when she had spread the cloth over the little table, and laid
covers for two on either side of the shaded lamp; "at least she's
cooking and I'm serving. Come into the garden, Ben, before it's ready,
and run with me down the terrace."

"The garden is ruined. I saw it when I came over with the agent."

"Ruined? And with such lilacs! They are a little late because of the
cold spring, but a perfect bower."

She caught my hand as she spoke, and we passed together through the long
window leading from our bedroom to the porch, where a few startled
swallows flew out, crying harshly, from among the white columns. Many of
the elms had died; the magnolias and laburnums, with the exception of a
few stately trees, had decayed on the terrace, and the thick maze of box
was now thin and rapidly dwindling away from the gravelled paths. On the
ground, under the young green of dandelion and wild violets, the rotting
leaves of last year were still lying; and as we descended the steps, and
followed the littered walks down the hill-side, broken pieces of pottery
crumbled beneath our feet.

Clasping hands like two children, we stood for a minute in silence, with
our eyes on the ruin before us, and the memory of the enchanted garden
and our first love in our thoughts. Then, "Oh, Ben, the lilacs!" said
Sally, softly.

They were there on all sides, floating like purple and white clouds in
the wind, and shedding their delicious perfume over the scattered rose
arbours and the dwindling box. Light, delicate, and brave, they had
withstood frost and decay, while the latticed summer houses had fallen
under the weight of the microphylla roses that grew over them. The wind
now was lad