The cane was long enough for his purpose and its crooked handle seemed fashioned for just such an emergency. But the low branches of a rose-bush were between him and the prize, and every time he tried to drag the latter towards the fence they interposed and foiled him. The leaves of the Daphne-tree rustled in the gathering breeze and murmured “Thief! Thief!” At his side a sheet of paper escaped from the pickets and, all unseen, bounded merrily into the Enchanted Garden. Burton’s face grew redder and redder and the sun seemed resolved on burning his back through the light shirt. The perspiration gathered on his forehead and slipped down his straight, long nose in little drops that tickled excruciatingly. Again and again the cluster of roses was almost within reach of his outstretched brown hand, and again and again the faithful branches whipped it back. Burton paused, wiped the drops from his face, viewed the somewhat bedraggled bunch of flowers exasperatedly, and summed up the situation mildly and satisfactorily in a clearly enunciated and temper-relieving “Damn!” Then he poked the cane again through the pickets and past the branches. And then,-- “Perhaps I can help you?” said a voice almost overhead. He looked up into the amused brown eyes of the girl. [Illustration] [Illustration] IV The person whose self-possession fails him miserably at ordinary junctures may rise superior at a soul-disturbing crisis. Burton, red-faced, perspiring, conscious of the sorry figure he presented, arose from his hands and knees with brilliant composure. A glistening drop was tickling the side of his nose, yet he inclined his head politely towards the pickets; innumerable other drops were creeping disturbingly down the middle of his back, yet he smiled almost blandly. “Thank you, if you will be so kind,” he said, and held forth his hand. She bent gracefully and picked up the spray. Then,-- “I fear they are rather wilted,” she said with polite regret. “There are fresher ones on your side of the fence, are there not?” Her accent was delicious, Burton thought; soft, creamy,--like her cheeks,--filled with odd little drawls and slurs. He hoped she would go on. But she didn’t; she only paused and looked questioningly from the withered spray of roses to his face. Her expression was merely one of courteous indifference, of polite interest tinctured with reserve; yet in the farther depths of her brown eyes a little imp of mischief danced into sight and out again. [Illustration] “The roses on my side are charmingly fresh,” responded Burton, “but the fact is I have a desire for that especial spray.” [Illustration] “Perhaps because stolen fruit is sweetest?” she asked maliciously. “Not altogether for that reason,” he smiled. “There are certain associations connected with it that endear it.” “Indeed?” She held it gingerly by the extreme tip of the stem and reached towards the fence. He accepted it gravely and thanked her.