eads were visible. Like the frame
surrounding a tapestry, great pines bordered the vineyard save on the
side nearest the valley, for the first of the Marshs, who had planted
the vineyard and built the house, had taken care to protect his vines
from the north-east storms.

The clanging notes of a bell, mellowed by distance, came faintly from
the valley below. Rosemary took out the thin, old watch that had been
her mother's and her mother's mother's before her, and set the hands at
four upon the pale gold dial. Then she drew up the worn gold chain that
hung around her neck, under her gown, and, with the key that dangled
from it, wound the watch. In an hour or so, probably, it would stop, but
it was pleasant to hear the cheerful little tick while she waited.

[Sidenote: The Red Ribbon]

The doors of the white schoolhouse in the valley burst open and the tide
of exuberant youth rushed forth. Like so many ants, the children swarmed
and scattered, their shrill voices sounding afar. Rosemary went to a
hollow tree, took out a small wooden box, opened it, and unwound
carefully a wide ribbon of flaming scarlet, a yard or more in length.
Digging her heels into the soft earth, she went down to the lowest of
the group of birches, on the side of the hill that overlooked the
valley, and tied the ribbon to a drooping bough. Then she went back to
the top of the hill, where a huge log, rolled against two trees, made a
comfortable seat for two people.

Five minutes of the allotted twenty had passed since Rosemary had set
her watch. At twenty minutes past four, or, at the most, twenty-five, he
would come. For three years and more he had never failed to answer the
signal, nor, indeed, to look for it when he brushed the chalk from his
clothes and locked the door of the schoolhouse behind him.

A kindly wind, in passing, took the ribbon and made merry with it. In
and out among the bare boughs of the birches it fluttered like a living
thing, and Rosemary laughed aloud, as she had not done for many days.
The hill, the scarlet signal, and the man who was coming symbolised, to
her, the mysterious world of Romance.

[Sidenote: World of Romance]

Sometimes the birches were shy dryads, fleeing before the wrath of some
unknown god. At other times, they were the Muses, for, as it happened,
there were nine in the group and no others upon the hill. The vineyard
across the valley was a tapestry, where, from earliest Spring until the
grapes were g