"Who are you?" he said abruptly, as he put up his hand to help her from the car. "I don't know you! I thought I did--but you are somebody else!" He was looking at her keenly. "Goose!" she laughed. "I am Mary Canfield, of course-- Which way do we go?" "This way." They fell into step. And he was conscious that the light, tripping, hospital step had given way to a free, swinging movement of the whole body. She was like the radiant day about them.... And she was like the roses--when at last they stood among them.... Her freedom had the same careful air of cultivation; and the crisp little color in her cheeks had the same dainty refinement. He plucked a rose and held it against her cheek. "Just a match!" he said critically. "Goes with you! Will you have it?" She tucked it in her belt--among the endless frills--and he looked at it admiringly. When he saw the gardener's eyes following them, he walked with conscious pride. He had not known that any one felt like this! He would have liked to walk with her always--with the whole world looking on and admiring her.... She belonged to him! "I say!" He stopped short in the path. "You are engaged to me, you know!" "Oh--am I?" She laughed. He went in a panic-- Some girls were such frightful flirts! They had no decency--They didn't play the game! "You are _mine_!" he said fiercely and he glared at the gardener among his roses across the path. "Oh--very well! Have it so!" Her voice was laughing and sweet. His courage came flooding back. "You are to wait here--please, and we'll have the tea brought out." "Oh-- How pretty!" She was looking into the pergola. A green maze of branches crossed and recrossed the sides; and among them the scattered roses flushed transparently in the light. "How beautiful it is!" "Will you go in?" he said, standing aside. "Will you walk into my parlor?" She stepped lightly in and faced him. "Now go and get tea! I like it here!" She sat down and he looked at her once--and was off. He hurried fast. Suppose she didn't stay?... Suppose it were not real! He fussed about cakes and sandwiches--and there must be strawberries. Everything must be of the best. Suppose she didn't wait! He hurried back. She had taken off her hat and sat with her hands clasped, looking up into the mazy green tracery and the bits of rose color shining through. "It is like us," she said with a little motion of her hand. "Like you," he said soberly, sitting beside her. "_I'm_ not a rose!" "No!" She laughed out. "But it _is_ like us--it's just happiness--nothing to it!" She crushed it in her hand. And he stared at her. "No one takes us seriously," she said. "They just think how young we are----" "And how beautiful _you_ are!" "They know it won't last." She was looking at it musingly. "And they think _we don't_ know----" "It _will_ last!" said the boy vehemently. "Will it?" She held out her hand prettily and he kissed it. "It's going to last forever," he said stoutly.