"
They strolled along the moss-grown path, past the house, aside into the
garden, its tangle of flowers and shrubbery rich with neglected bloom and
sweet with all manner of scents--sweet-william, larkspur, clove-pink.
Leaver, stooping, picked a spicy-smelling, fringe-bordered pink, and
sniffed its sun-warmed fragrance.
"It takes me back to my boyhood," he said, "when I used to think a visit
at my grandfather's old country place the greatest thing that could
happen to me. There was a big bed of these flowers under my window. When
the sun was hot upon them they rivalled the spices of Araby."
Miss Mathewson stood looking back at the house. From the garden, which
lay at the side and behind it, it showed all of its forlornness and few
of its possibilities.
"What will she make of living there, even for the year she means to
stay?" she wondered, aloud. "Now, if it were I, it wouldn't seem strange;
I am used to living in a little old house. But such a girl as Miss
Ruston--I can hardly imagine her here. She thinks the house and the old
garden will make fine backgrounds for her work. I suppose they will."
"Miss Ruston?" Dr. Leaver repeated. "Was that the name?"
"Miss Charlotte Ruston, of South Carolina, I believe. I never heard the
name before, have you?"
"It is an unusual one. I have known only one person of that name.
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