she was happy for evermore.” “Oh, that is a stupid story,” said Nan. “It’s not a true story at all. You could tell it to me anywhere, and why should we be troubled walking to the Linn?” “Because this is the Lady’s Linn,” said Gilian, “and to be telling a story you must be putting a place in it or it will not sound true. And Gillesbeg Aotram who told me the story--” “Gillesbeg Aotram!” she said in amaze. “He’s daft. If I thought it was a daft man’s story I had to hear I----” “He’s not daft at all,” protested Gilian. “He’s only different from his neighbours.” “That is being daft,” said she. “But it is a very clever tale and you tell it very well. You must tell me more stories. Do you know any more stories? I like soldier stories. My father tells me a great many.” “The Cornal tells me a great many too,” said Gilian, “but they are all true, and they do not sound true, and I have to make them all up again in my own mind. But this is not the place for soldier stories; every place has its own kind of story, and this is the place for fairy stories if you care for them.” “I like them well enough,” she answered dubiously, “though I like better the stories where people are doing things.” They rose from their seat of illusion beside the Linn where the King of Knapdale’s daughter broke the gate of sleep and dream. They walked into the Duke’s flower garden. And now the day was done, the sun had gone behind Creag Dubh while they were sitting by the river; a grey-brown dusk wrapped up the country-side. The tall trees that were so numerous outside changed here to shorter darker foreign trees, and yews that never waved in winds, but seemed the ghosts of trees, to thickets profound, with secrets in their recesses. In and out among these unfamiliar growths walked Nan and her companion, their pathway crooking in a maze of newer wonders on either hand. One star peered from the sky, the faint wind of the afternoon had sunk to a hint of mingled and moving odours. Gilian took the girl’s hand, and thus together they went deeper into the garden among the flowers that perfumed the air till it seemed drugged and heavy. They walked and walked in the maze of intersecting roads whose pebbles grated to the foot, and, so magic the place, there seemed no end to their journey. Nan became alarmed. “I wish I had never come,” said she. “I want home.” And the tears were very close upon her eyes. “Yes, yes,” said Gilian, leading her on through paths he had never seen before. “We will get out in a moment. I know--I think I know, the road. It is this way--no, it is this way--no, I am wrong.” But he did not cease to lead her through the garden. The long unending rows of gay flowers stretching in the haze of evening, the parterres spread in gaudy patches, the rich revelation of moss and grass between the trees and shrubs were wholly new to him; they stirred to thrills of wonder and delight. “Isn’t it fine, fine?” he asked her in a whisper lest the charm should fly.