Midsummer lay upon the garden and the faint odour of mignonette and lavender came with every wandering wind. White butterflies and thistledown floated in the air, bees hummed drowsily, and the stately hollyhocks swayed slowly back and forth. “Do you know why I asked you to come today?” She spoke to Ruth, but looked at Winfield. “Why, Miss Ainslie?” “Because it is my birthday--I am fifty-five years old.” Ruth's face mirrored her astonishment. “You don't look any older than I do,” she said. Except for the white hair, it was true. Her face was as fresh as a rose with the morning dew upon it, and even on her neck, where the folds of lace revealed a dazzling whiteness, there were no lines. “Teach us how to live, Miss Ainslie,” said Winfield, softly, “that the end of half a century may find us young.” A delicate pink suffused her cheeks and she turned her eyes to his. “I've just been happy, that's all,” she answered. “It needs the alchemist's touch,” he said, “to change our sordid world to gold.” “We can all learn,” she replied, “and even if we don't try, it comes to us once.” “What?” asked Ruth. “Happiness--even if it isn't until the end. In every life there is a perfect moment, like a flash of sun. We can shape our days by that, if we will--before by faith, and afterward by memory.” The conversation drifted to less serious things. Ruth, remembering that Miss Ainslie did not hear the village gossip, described her aunt's home-coming, the dismissal of Hepsey, and told her of the wedding which was to take place that evening. Winfield was delighted, for he had never heard her talk so well, but Miss Ainslie listened with gentle displeasure. “I did not think Miss Hathaway would ever be married abroad,” she said. “I think she should have waited until she came home. It would have been more delicate to let him follow her. To seem to pursue a gentleman, however innocent one may be, is--is unmaidenly.” Winfield choked, then coughed violently. “Understand me, dear,” Miss Ainslie went on, “I do not mean to criticise your aunt--she is one of my dearest friends. Perhaps I should not have spoken at all,” she concluded in genuine distress. “It's all right, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth assured her, “I know just how you feel.” Winfield, having recovered his composure, asked a question about the garden, and Miss Ainslie led them in triumph around her domain. She gathered a little nosegay of sweet-williams for Ruth, who was over among the hollyhocks, then she said shyly: “What shall I pick for you?” “Anything you like, Miss Ainslie. I am at a loss to choose.” She bent over and plucked a leaf of rosemary, looking at him long and searchingly as she put it into his hand. “For remembrance,” she said, with the deep fire burning in her eyes. Then she added, with a pitiful hunger in her voice: “Whatever happens, you won't forget me?” “Never!” he answered, strangely stirred.