“I tell you, the more the resemblance grew, the more and the less homesick I got. It was at once a pain and a consolation. There were times when I almost regretted my enterprise, and wanted to tear up the path, destroy the garden, strangle the puppy, and throw away the flowers, letting the whole place return to the bleakness from which I had rescued it. I wanted to do this, because my efforts had been too successful, and as a consequence I expected to see Ruth appear in that doorway, white sewing in her hands, and a smile of welcome to me—to me!—in her eyes. I have often come home pleasantly tired from my day’s work, fully though sub-consciously confident that I should see her as I have described.... “That garden of mine had many narrow escapes. But I kept it, and I went on with my pretence, perfecting it here and there: I got a kennel for the puppy, and I got some doves that hung in a wicker-cage beside the door. At last the counterfeit struck MacPherson. “‘Why,’ he said, stopping one evening, ‘it looks quite English.’ “‘Do you think so?’ I replied. “‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I tell you what, those flowers are wrong. An English cottage garden doesn’t have orchids; it has mignonette. How can we get some mignonette?’ “‘I might write home for some,’ I said slowly. “It was true: I might write home for some. To whom? Mrs. Pennistan would send it me. Then it would have a sentimental value which it would lack coming from a seedsman. But I knew quite well that it was not to Mrs. Pennistan that I intended to write. “After dinner I brought out a little folding table and set it by the door. MacPherson was there already, playing Patience as was his invariable habit. “‘Going to write letters?’ he asked, seeing my inkpot. “‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m going to write for the mignonette.’ “I headed my letter, ‘Ephesus,’ an address which always gave me satisfaction; not that I often had an opportunity of writing it. “‘MY DEAR RUTH,—I am writing to you from a hill-side in Turkey to ask you if you will send me some seeds of mignonette for my garden; it is very easy to grow, and I think would do well in this soil. You would laugh if you could see my house, it is not like anything you have ever seen before. Please send me the mignonette soon, and a line with it to tell me if you are well.’ “I addressed it, ‘Mrs. Rawdon Westmacott, Vale Farm, Weald, Kent, England,’ and there it lay on my table grinning and mocking at me, knowing that it would presently cross the threshold I was dying to cross, and be taken in the hands I was dying to hold again. “‘Done?’ said MacPherson. ‘Where have you ordered the seeds from? Carter’s?’ “‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve asked a friend for them,’ and some odd impulse made me show him the address on the envelope. “He read it, nodded, and said nothing. I was disappointed, though really I don’t know what I should have answered had he questioned me.