“There, now, Holker,” she said with a smile as she laid her hand on his coat sleeve--“not another word. Tunnels are things everybody wants to get through with as quick as possible--and I'm not going to spend all night in yours--awful damp places full of smoke--No--not another word. Ruth, ask that young Roebling next you to tell us another story--No, wait until we have our coffee and you gentlemen have lighted your cigars. Perhaps, Ruth, you had better take Mr. Breen into the smoking-room. Now, give me your arm, Holker, and you come, too, Major, and bring Peter with you to my boudoir. I want to show you the most delicious copy of Shelley you ever saw. No, Mr. Breen, Ruth wants you; we will be with you in a few minutes--” Then after the two had passed on ahead--“Look at them, Major--aren't they a joy, just to watch?--and aren't you ashamed of yourself that you have wasted your life? No arbor for you! What would you give if a lovely girl like that wanted you all to herself by the side of my frog pond?” A shout ahead from Jack, and a rippling laugh from Ruth now floated our way. “Oh!--OH!--” and “Yes--isn't it wonderful--come and see the arbor--” and then a clatter of feet down the soggy steps and fainter footfalls on the moist bricks, ending in silence. “There!” laughed Miss Felicia, turning toward us and clapping her hands--“they have reached the arbor and it's all over, and now we will all go out on the porch for our coffee. I haven't any Shelley that you have not seen a dozen times--I just intended that surprise to come to the boy and in the way Ruth wanted it--she has talked of nothing else since she knew he was coming. Mighty dangerous, I can tell you, that old bench. Ruth can take care of herself, but that poor fellow will be in a dreadful state if we leave them alone too long. Sit here, Holker, and tell me about the dinner and what you said. All that Peter could remember was that you never did better, and that everybody cheered, and that the squabs were so dry he couldn't eat them.” But the Scribe refuses to be interested in Holker's talk, however brilliant, or in Miss Felicia's crisp repartee. His thoughts are down among the palms, where the two figures are entering the arbor, the soft glow of half a dozen lanterns falling upon the joyous face of the beautiful girl, as, with hand in Jack's, she leads him to a seat beside her on the bench. “But it's like home,” Jack gasped. “Why, you must remember your own garden, and the porch that ran alongside of the kitchen, and the brick walls--and just see how big it is and you never told me a word about it! Why?”