"Yes; branches of blossoms--I see them," said Lucian. "But as for the attitude--perhaps we had better leave it to her. Suppose yourself, Garda, to be particularly happy--" "I'm happy now," said the girl. She had seated herself on the old tomb's edge, and folded her hands. "Well, more joyous, then." "I'm joyous." "I shall never finish my legend if you interrupt me so," said Margaret, putting her hand on Garda's shoulder. "Listen; you are on your way home from an Arcadian revel, with some shepherds who are playing on their pipes, when you come suddenly upon an old tomb in the forest. No one knows who lies there; you stop a moment to make out the inscription, which is barely legible, and it tells you, 'I too lived in--'" "Florida!" said Lucian. "I am to do that?" asked Garda, looking at him. He nodded. She went back, took Margaret's nearly finished wreath and all the rest of the gathered vines, and returning to the tomb, one arm loaded with them, the long sprays falling over her dress, she laid her other hand on Lucian's shoulder, and drawing him near the old stones, clung to him a little as if half afraid, bending her head at the same time as though reading the inscription which was supposed to be written there. The attitude was extremely graceful, a half-shrinking, half-fascinated curiosity. "This it?" she asked. "Not the least in the world! What has Mr. Spenser to do with it?" said Margaret. "He's the Arcadian shepherds." "Let me place you." And Margaret drew her away. Garda yielded passively. Nothing could have been sweeter than the expression of her face when Margaret had at length satisfied herself as regarded position. The girl stood behind the tomb, which rose a little higher than her knees; she rested one hand on its gray edge, holding the wreath on her other arm, which was pressed against her breast. "You ought to be looking down," said Margaret. But Garda did not look down. "She is supposed to have read the inscription, and to be musing over it," suggested Lucian. He fell to work immediately. "We have been here an hour and a half, and we promised to be back in an hour--remember that, Mr. Spenser," said Margaret, who had seated herself near him. "The bare outlines," murmured Lucian. He did not appear to wish to speak. As for Garda, she looked as though she should never speak again; she looked like a picture more than a real presence--a picture, but not of nineteenth-century painting. She did not stir, her eyes were full of a wonderful light. After a while it seemed to oppress Margaret--this glowing vision beside the gray tomb in the still wood. She rose and went to Lucian, watching him work, she began to talk. "It's fortunate that you have already sketched the tomb," she said; "you can use that sketch for the details." He did not reply, Garda's softly fixed eyes seemed to hold him bound.