take a short turn."

They moved on to the Winslow gate, and entered the garden by a path
which brought them to a point midway between the old cottage and the
larger house. There it crossed under an arch transecting an arbor that
extended from a side door of the one dwelling to a like one of the
other, and the brother and sister had just passed this embowered spot
and were stepping down a winding descent by which the path sought the
old mill-pond, when behind them they observed two women pass athwart
their track by way of the arbor, and Ruth smiled and murmured again.
The crossing pair were Mrs. Morris and Sarah Stebbens, the Winslows'
life-long housekeeper, deeply immersed in arranging for Isabel to
become lady of the larger house, while her mother, with a single
young maidservant, was to remain mistress of the cottage.

The deep pond to whose edge Leonard and Ruth presently came was a narrow
piece of clear water held in between Bylow Hill and the loftier cliff
beyond by an old stone dam long unused. Rude ledges of sombre rock
underlay its depths and lined and shelved its sides. Broad beeches and
dark hemlocks overhung it. At every turn it mirrored back the slanting
forms of the white and the yellow birch, or slept under green mantles
of lily pads. It bore a haunted air even in the floweriest days of the
year, when every bird of the wood thrilled it with his songs, and it
gave to the entire region the gravest as well as richest note among all
its harmonies. Down the whole way to it some one long gone had gardened
with so wise a hand that later negligence had only made the wild
loveliness of this inmost refuge more affluent and impassioned.

At one point, where the hemlocks hung farthest and lowest over the pool,
and the foot sank deep in a velvet of green mosses, a solid ledge of
dark rock shelved inward from the top of the bank and down through the
flood to a depth cavernous and black. Here, brought from time to time by
the Byington and Winslow playmates, lay a number of mossy stones rounded
by primeval floods, some large enough for seats, some small; and here,
where Ruth had last sat with Godfrey, she now came with her brother.

The habitual fewness of Leonard's words was a thing she prized beyond
count. It made Mrs. Morris nervous, drained her mind's treasury, and
sent her conversational powers borrowing and begging; Isabel it awed;
Arthur it tantalized; to Godfrey it was an appetizing drollery; but to
Ruth it wa