Miss Ainslie drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and led her guest outdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other ways, it was an old-fashioned garden, with a sun-dial and an arbour, and little paths, nicely kept, that led to the flower beds and circled around them. There were no flowers as yet, except in a bed of wild violets under a bay window, but tiny sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent with promise, and the lilacs were budded. “That's a snowball bush over there,” said Miss Ainslie, “and all that corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They're old-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for-blush and cinnamon and sweet briar--but I love them all. That long row is half peonies and half bleeding-hearts, and I have a bed of columbines under a window on the other side of the house. The mignonette and forget-me-nots have a place to themselves, for I think they belong together--sweetness and memory. “There's going to be lady-slippers over there,” Miss Ainslie went on, “and sweet william. The porch is always covered with morning-glories--I think they're beautiful and in that large bed I've planted poppies, snap-dragon, and marigolds. This round one is full of larkspur and bachelor's buttons. I have phlox and petunias, too--did you ever see a petunia seed?” Ruth shook her head. “It's the tiniest thing, smaller than a grain of sand. When I plant them, I always wonder how those great, feathery petunias are coming out of those little, baby seeds, but they come. Over there are things that won't blossom till late--asters, tiger-lilies and prince's feather. It's going to be a beautiful garden, deary. Down by the gate are my sweet herbs and simples--marjoram, sweet thyme, rosemary, and lavender. I love the lavender, don't you?” “Yes, I do,” replied Ruth, “but I've never seen it growing.” “It's a little bush, with lavender flowers that yield honey, and it's all sweet--flowers, leaves, and all. I expect you'll laugh at me, but I've planted sunflowers and four-o'clocks and foxglove.” “I won't laugh---I think it's lovely. What do you like best, Miss Ainslie?” “I love them all,” she said, with a smile on her lips and her deep, unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth, “but I think the lavender comes first. It's so sweet, and then it has associations--” She paused, in confusion, and Ruth went on, quickly: “I think they all have associations, and that's why we love them. I can't bear red geraniums because a cross old woman I knew when I was a child had her yard full of them, and I shall always love the lavender,” she added, softly, “because it makes me think of you.” Miss Ainslie's checks flushed and her eyes shone. “Now we'll go into the house,” she said, “and we'll have tea.” “I shouldn't stay any longer,” murmured Ruth, following her, “I've been here so long now.” “'T isn't long,” contradicted Miss Ainslie, sweetly, “it's been only a very few minutes.”