of the flowers.

There was an Italian garden, with marble benches, fawns and dryads,
which was exactly like those depicted in _Country Life_: and here it
was, and she was free of it! Oh, marvellous! Presently a huge deerhound,
graceful as the forest from which he sprang, came bounding to her; he
stopped and eyed her critically for a moment, then he came forward in
stately fashion and laid his beautiful head in the hands she
outstretched to him. She went down on her knees and hugged him; and he
submitted to the embrace, with his great, loving eyes fixed on hers
approvingly. When the big bell in one of the towers rang for breakfast
the dog followed her into the little room behind the library and flung
himself down at her side, as if he belonged to her.

While she was eating her breakfast Mrs. Dexter looked in, inquired how
Celia had slept, cast an examining eye over the bountifully furnished
table, with its gleaming silver and dainty china, and asked if Celia had
everything she needed.

"Oh, yes," said Celia, with a laugh. "I have never seen such a breakfast
in my life; there are so many things that I don't know which to choose."

Mrs. Dexter smiled, with an air of satisfaction. "I see you have got
Roddy," she said.

At the sound of his name the big dog rose and went to the housekeeper,
then returned to Celia.

"Yes; isn't he a beautiful dog?" said Celia. "We made friends outside. I
am flattering myself that he has taken a fancy to me; I hope he has."

"It certainly looks like it," assented Mrs. Dexter. "He will be company
for you on your walks."

"Oh, may I have him?" cried Celia, delightedly. "I've fallen
passionately in love with him."

Mrs. Dexter assured her that Roddy, as well as everything in and about
the place, was at Celia's service, and, explaining that she was very
busy, hurried away. Immediately after breakfast Celia began her
delightful work, and for the next two or three days stuck to it so
persistently that Mrs. Dexter remonstrated.

"Oh, but you don't know how much I love it," pleaded Celia. "The moment
I leave the library I want to get back to it. You see, I'm mad on books,
and this work of mine is a labour of love; the very touch of some of
these old volumes thrills me. And there are so many of them; sometimes I
feel that I shall never get through my task, if I live to be ninety."

"You'll soon look like ninety, my dear, if you don't take more
exercise," observed Mrs. Dexter, wisely. "I am