lf was nothing, a mere tag of poetry as familiar
to every schoolboy as his ABC, but if the timely mention of it was a
sign that the cloud was dispersing further, what would be the next
train of thought to emerge from darkness and oblivion? Had Philippa
been more vigilant the occurrence would undoubtedly have afforded her
food for reflection.

There came at length an afternoon when for his amusement she described
a place which they should visit together, which should be for them both
a garden of enchantment; and lest he should wonder at her intimate
knowledge of a land which possibly her namesake had never seen, she
painted it in fanciful poetic words, leaving him uncertain whether she
was drawing entirely on her imagination or not.

There was, as a matter of fact, a villa on the shore of Lake Maggiore
which she had seen the previous year, and which had impressed itself
upon her memory as being the loveliest spot earth could show--a
veritable dreamland--and when she had turned her mind to the task of
finding some retreat, hidden safely from the eyes of curious
passers-by, and possessing all the necessary qualifications of climate
and comfort, it had at once struck her as the very place she sought.

She had laid her plans with eager care, no detail for his well-being
should be forgotten. It only now remained that she should receive a
reply in the affirmative to her letter of inquiry as to whether the
house was available.

Francis was sitting beside her watching the smiles come and go on her
expressive face as she grew more and more interested in her theme.

"Go on, dearest," he said, as she paused. "Tell me some more about
your paradise."

"There is a terrace in front of it where lilies and oleanders grow and
roses riot over an old stone wall, and the air is rich with the scent
of them. At one end is a tall cypress-tree, and the sunlight touches
the stem of it until it shines like fire against the green darkness of
its boughs. On the worn old stone pavement white pigeons strut and
preen themselves, puffing out their chests with the most absurd air of
self-satisfaction. There are steps down from the terrace, and at the
bottom there is a great bed of carnations, red and white and yellow,
and their fragrance meets you like a wall of perfume as you pass."

"There should be violets," he interrupted. "Where are your violets?
You could not be happy without them."

"Oh, of course there are violets," agreed Philipp