el with her hands clasped behind
her, her head a little thrown back, a faint, wistful smile lightening
the unusual gravity of her face. I looked at her in wonder.

"Come," I said, "what are the things you want me to talk to you about,
and why are you tired of talking nonsense with Arthur?"

She did not look at me, but the smile faded from her lips. Her eyes were
still fixed steadily ahead.

"I believe you think, Arnold," she said quietly, "that I am still a
baby!"

I saw her lips quiver for a moment, and my selfishness melted away. I
thought only of her.

"No, I do not think that, Isobel," I said gently. "Only if I were you I
would not be in too great a hurry to grow up. It is when one is young,
after all, that one walks in the gardens of life. Afterwards--when one
has passed through the portals--outside the roads are dusty, and the way
a little wearisome. Stay in the gardens, Isobel, as long as you can.
Believe me, that life outside has many disappointments and many sorrows.
Your time will come soon enough."

She smiled at me a little enigmatically.

"And you?" she asked, "have you closed the gates of the garden behind
you?"

"I am nearer forty than thirty," I answered. "I have grey hairs, and I
am getting a little bald. I may still be of some use in the world, and
there are very beautiful places where I may rest, and even find
happiness. But they are not like the gardens of youth. There is no other
place like them. All of us who have hurried so eagerly away, Isobel,
look back sometimes--and long!"

She shook her head. Perhaps a little of the sadness of my mood had after
all found its way into my tone, for she looked at me with the shadow of
a reproach in her deep blue eyes, a faint tenderness which seemed to me
more beautiful than anything I had ever seen.

"I do not think that I like your allegory, Arnold," she said. "After
all, the gardens are the nursery of life, are they not? The great things
of the world are all outside."

I held my breath for a moment in amazement. Since when had thoughts like
this come to her? I knew then that the days of her childhood were
numbered indeed, that, underneath the fresh joyous grace of her
delightful youth, the woman's instincts were stirring. And I was afraid!

"The great things, Isobel," I said slowly, "look very fine from a
distance, but the power of accomplishment is not given to all of us.
Every triumph and every success has its reverse side, its sorrowful
sid