the spiritual life
coursing back of the material universe. Equally slowly and inevitably
had the two come to believe that the little changeling at the lodge held
some wordless clue, some unconscious knowledge as to that outer sphere,
that surrounding, peopled ether, in which, under their apparent
rationality, the two had come to believe. Yet the banker and his wife
stood to Mockwooders for no special cult or fad; it was only between
themselves that their quest had become a slowly developing motive.

"Gargoyle was under the rose-arbor this morning." It was according to
custom that Evelyn Strang would relate the child's latest phase. "He sat
there without stirring such a long time that I was fascinated. I noticed
that he never picked a rose, never smelled one. The early sun fell
slanting through their petals till they glowed like thin little wheels
of fire. John dear, it was that scalloped fire which Gargoyle was
staring at. The flowers seemed to lean toward him, vibrating color and
perfumes too delicate for me to hear. _I_ only saw and smelled the
flowers; Gargoyle looked as if he _felt_ them! Don't laugh; you know we
look at flowers because when we were little, people always said, 'See
the pretty flower, smell the pretty flower,' but no one said, 'Listen
and see if you can hear the flower grow; be still and see if you can
catch the flower speaking.'"

Strang never did laugh, never brushed away these fantastic ideas.
Settling back in his piazza chair, his big hands locked together, he
would listen, amusing himself with his pet theory of Gargoyle's
"undressed mind."

"By the way," he said once, "that reminds me, have you ever seen our
young Solomon of the flower-harem smile?"

"Of course I haven't; neither have you." Young Mrs. Strang averred it
confidently. "He never has smiled, poor baby, nor cried--his mother
told me that long ago."

The banker kept his eyes on the treetops; he had his finger-tips nicely
balanced before he remarked, with seeming irrelevance:

"You know that nest in the tree we call the Siegfried tree?"

She nodded.

"The other day a bird fell out of it, one of the young ones, pushed out
by a housecleaning mother, I suppose. It killed the poor little
feathered gawk. I saw Gargoyle run, quick as a flash, and pick it up. He
pushed open the closing eyes, tried to place the bird on a hollyhock
stalk, to spread its wings, in every way to give it motion. When, after
each attempt, he saw it fall to t