Margaret draws a deep breath of relief, and begins to walk slowly along. A row of tall, white gladioli, nearly as high-statured as herself, looking ghostly fair in the starshine, keep her company, lovely and virginal as May lilies; and from the farther side of the garden comes an ineffable waft of that violet smell which we used to connect only with spring. As she paces to and fro the ugly din fades out of her ears and the ireful red out of her cheeks. A sort of peace settles down upon her--only a _sort_ of peace, however! Her mind is still oppressed by the image of Prue, and by a vague misgiving of coming trouble, coupled with a sense, which she will not own to herself, of personal disappointment, and of a mortified covert self-gratulation upon not having worn her best gown, or in anywise tricked herself out. To one, however, whose hand is on the garden-latch, as she so thinks, she looks tricked out enough, indeed, in her own fairness; enough to make his heart sick with the hopelessness of its longing as he goes towards her. After all, she is not much surprised at his having followed her! Possibly he may have a message of recall for her. 'Well!' she says, meeting him with a delicate moonlit smile. Low as the light is, it is light enough to show that there is no answering smile on his face. 'So you escaped at last!' he says, with a sort of groan. 'I watched to see how long you could stand it.' The shadow that the star-beams, and the violet breath, and Heaven knows what other gentle influence, have chased from her features, settles down on them again. 'I am never fond of comic songs,' she answers stiffly; 'and I do not think that that was a particularly favourable specimen.' He makes a gesture of disgust. 'Pah!' Then adds: 'I should have followed you before, only that I wanted to get Prue away. I knew that you would be glad if I could; but it was impossible!' He has never spoken of her as 'Prue' before; but in his present agitation--an agitation for which Peggy is at a loss to account--he has obviously clean forgotten the formal prefix. She is too much touched by his thoughtfulness for her to answer. 'My chief motive for following you,' continues he, speaking in an unusual and constrained voice, 'was that I thought I might possibly not have another opportunity of giving you _this_.' As he speaks he puts a small parcel into her hands. 'It is only the ladder for the birds.' She breaks into a laugh. 'They are in no such great hurry for it,' says she gaily; 'they could have waited until to-morrow.' He sighs. 'I am afraid that they would have had to wait longer than until to-morrow!' 'Well, I daresay that they might have made shift until Wednesday,' returns she. The entire unsuspiciousness of her tone makes his task a tenfold harder one than it would otherwise have been.