"St. Rest is a veritable orchard, when the season favours it," said Walden--"It is one of the best fruit-growing corners in England. At Abbot's Manor, for instance, the cherry crop is finer than can be gathered on the same acreage of ground in Kent. Did you know that?" Maryllia laughed. "No! I know absolutely nothing about my own home, Mr. Walden,--and I am perfectly aware that I ought to be ashamed of my ignorance. I AM ashamed of it! I'm going to try and amend the error of my ways as fast as I can. When Cicely Bourne comes to stay with me, she will help me. She's ever so much more sensible than I am. She's a genius." "Geniuses do not always get the credit of being sensible, do they?" queried John, smiling--"Are they not supposed to be creatures of impulse, dwellers in the air, and wholly irresponsible?" "Exactly so,"--she replied--"That is the commonplace opinion commonplace people entertain of them. Yet the commonplace people owe everything they enjoy in art, literature and science to the conceptions of genius, and of genius alone. As for Cicely, she is the most practical little person possible. She began to earn her living at the age of eleven, and has 'roughed' it in the world more severely than many a man. But she keeps her dreams," "And those who wish her well will pray that she may always keep them,"--said Walden--"For to lose one's illusions is to lose the world." "The world itself may be an illusion!" said Maryllia, drawing near the garden gate and leaning upon it for a moment, as she glanced up at him with a vague sadness in her eyes,--"We never know. I have often felt that it is only a pretty little pageant, with a very dark background behind it!" He was silent, looking at her. For the first time he caught himself noticing her dress. It was of simple pale blue linen, relieved with white embroidered lawn, and in its cool, fresh, clean appearance was in keeping with the clear bright day. A plain straw garden hat tied across the crown and under the chin with a strip of soft blue ribbon to match the linen gown, was the finish to this 'fashionable' young woman's toilette,--and though it was infinitely becoming to the fair skin, azure eyes, and gold-brown hair of its wearer, it did not suggest undue extravagance, or a Paris 'mode.' And while he yet almost unconsciously studied the picture she made, resting one arm lightly across his garden gate, she lifted the latch suddenly and swung it open. "Good-bye!" and she nodded smilingly--"Thank you so much for letting me see your lovely garden! As soon as Cicely arrives, you must come and see her--you will, won't you?" "I shall be most happy---" he murmured. "She will be so interested to hear how you sent her my telegram,"-- continued Maryllia--"And Gigue too--poor old Gigue!--he is sure to come over here some time during the summer. He is such a quaint person! I think you will like him. Good-bye!"