did not die with its times, and it still exists, less sprightly, less
ready to mask in pastorals, but rhyming, meeting, and reciting verses
now and then, in the old manner, though rarely in the old haunts. Even
now fresh inscriptions in honour of the Arcadians are set into the
stuccoed walls of the little terraced garden under the hill.

It is very peaceful there. Above, the concave wall of the small house of
meeting looks down upon circular tiers of brick seats, and beyond these
there are bushes and a little fountain. To the right and left,
symmetrical walks lead down in two wide curves to the lower levels,
where the water falls again into a basin in a shaded grotto, and rises
the third time in another fountain. An ancient stone-pine tree springs
straight upwards, spreading out lovely branches. There are bushes again
and a magnolia, and a Japanese medlar, and there is moss. The stone
mouldings of the fountains are rich with the green tints of time. The
air is softly damp, smelling of leaves and flowers; there are corners
into which the sunlight never shines, little mysteries of perpetual
shade that are full of sadness in winter, but in summer repeat the
fanciful confidences of a delicious and imaginary past.

The Sister who had let in the two visitors had left them to themselves,
and had gone back to the little convent door; for she was the portress,
and therefore a small judge of character in her way, and she understood
that the two gentlemen were not like the other half-dozen strangers who
came every year to see the garden, and went away after ten minutes,
dropping half a franc into her hand for the Sisters, and not even
lifting their hats to her as she let them out. These two evidently knew
the place; they spoke to each other as intimate friends do; they had
come to enjoy the peace and silence for an hour, and they would neither
carry off the flowers from the magnolia tree, as some did, nor scrawl
their names in pencil on the stucco. Therefore they might safely be left
to their own leisure and will.

The men were friends, as the portress had guessed; they were very
unlike, and their unlikeness was in part the reason of their friendship.
The one was squarely built, of average height, a man of action at every
point, with bold blue eyes that could be piercing, a rugged Roman head,
prominent at the brows, short reddish hair and pointed beard, great jaw
and cheek-bones, a tanned and freckled skin. He sat leaning back, o