sy
delta where two of the rambling village lanes enter the Square. The
white, barn-like nave, with its upper and lower rows of small, oblong
windows, retires discreetly within a grove of elms, while a tall, slim
spire grows slimmer through diminishing tiers of arches, balconies, and
lancet lights till it dwindles away into a high, graceful pinnacle.

Behind the church, in the widest section of the delta, the parsonage, a
white wooden box dating from the fifties supporting a smaller box by way
of cupola, looks across garden, shrubbery, and lawn to Schoolhouse Lane,
from which nothing but the simplest form of wooden rail protects the
inclosure.

It was the time for bulbs to be in flower, and the spring perennials.
Tulips in a wide, dense mass bordered the brick pavement that led from
the gate to the front door. Elsewhere could be seen daffodils, irises,
peonies just bursting into bloom, and long, drooping curves of
bleeding-heart hung with rose-and-white pendents. By a corner of the
house the ground was indigo-dark with a thick little patch of squills.

It was a relief to Lois to find the old man himself, bareheaded and in
an alpaca house-jacket, rooting out weeds on the lawn, his thin, gray
locks tossed in the breeze. On seeing her pause and look over the clump
of wiegelia, which at this point smothered the rail, he raised himself,
dusted the earth from his hands, and went forward. They talked at first
just as they stood, with the budding shrubs between them.

"Oh, Dr. Hilary, I'm so anxious about Rosie Fay."

"Are you now?" As neither age nor gravity could subdue the twinkle in
his eyes, so sympathy couldn't quench it. "Well, I am meself."

"I think if I could see her I might be able to help her. Or, rather,"
she went on, nervously, "I think I ought to see her, whether I can help
her or not. Have you seen her?"

"I have not," he declared, with Irish emphasis. "The puss takes very
good care that I sha'n't, so she does. She's only got to see me coming
in the gate to fly off to Duck Rock; and that, so her mother tells me,
is all they see of her till nightfall. It's three days now that she's
been struck with a fit of melancholy, or maybe four."

"Do you know what the trouble is?"

He evaded the question. "Do you?"

"I do--partly."

"Then you'll be the one to tackle her. As yet I haven't asked. I prefer
to know no more about people than what they tell me themselves."

She found it possible to secure his aid on