xpression of thoughts which are more
than thoughts. They come up out of the great sea of our inner soul
like the breath of flowers from a hidden garden, like the sound of
breakers from the ocean cliffs; but not every one can scent their
fragrance, and some ears are too dull to hear music in the rush of
waters. And when one has caught the music of another's song then it
is best to stop before--before some discord comes. Lucy," he began, as
his soul within him rose up and clamored for it knew not what,
"Lucy--"

He paused, and the woman hung upon his lips to catch the words.

"Yes?" she said, but the thought had suddenly left him. It was a great
longing--that he knew--a great desire, unsensed because unknown--but
deep, deep.

"Yes--Rufus?" she breathed, leaning over; but the light had gone out
of his eyes and he gazed at her strangely.

"It is nothing," he murmured, "nothing. I--I have forgotten what I was
going to say." He sighed, and looked moodily at his feet. "The
thoughts of a would-be poet," he mused, cynically. "How valuable they
are--how the world must long for them--when he even forgets them
himself! I guess I'd better keep still and let you talk a while," he
ended, absently. But Lucy Ware sat gazing before her in silence.

"Isn't it time we returned?" she asked, after a while. "You know I
have a great deal to do."

"Oh, that's all right," said Hardy, easily, "I'll help you. What do
you want to do--clean house?"

Lucy could have cried at her hero's sudden lapse--from Parnassus to
the scullery, from love to the commonplaces of living; but she had
schooled herself to bear with him, since patience is a woman's part.
Yet her honest blue eyes were not adapted to concealment and,
furtively taking note of her distress, Hardy fell into the role of a
penitent.

"Is my garden such a poor place," he inquired gravely, "that you must
leave it the moment we have come? You have not even seen _Chupa
Rosa_."

"Well, show me _Chupa Rosa_--and then we will go."

She spoke the words reluctantly, rising slowly to her feet; and Hardy
knew that in some hidden way he had hurt her, yet in what regard he
could not tell. A vague uneasiness came over him and he tried
awkwardly to make amends for his fault, but good intentions never yet
crossed a river or healed a breach.

"Here is her nest," he said, "almost above our seat. Look, Lucy, it is
made out of willow down and spider webs, bound round and round the
twig. Don't you w