Dulce and Roger are, as usual, quarreling in a deadly, if carefully-subdued fashion. Dicky Browne, as usual, too, is eating anything and everything that comes within his reach, and is apparently supremely happy. At this moment Portia's longing having mastered her, she turns to Dulce and asks softly: "What is that faint streak of white I see out there, through, and beyond, the branches?" "Our lake," says Dulce, half turning her head in its direction. "Our pond," says Roger, calmly. "Our _lake_," repeats Dulcinea, firmly; at which Portia, feeling war to be once more imminent, says hastily-- "It looks quite lovely from this--so faint, so silvery." "It shows charmingly when the moon is up, through that tangled mass of roses, far down there," says Dulce, with a gesture toward the tangle. "I should like to go to it," says Portia, with unusual animation. "So you shall, to-morrow." "The moon will not be there to-morrow. I want to go now." "Then so you shall," says Dulce, rising; "have you had enough strawberries? Yes? Will you not finish your wine? No? Come with me, then, and the boys may follow us when they can tear themselves away from their claret!" This, with a scornful glance at Roger, who returns it generously. "I shall find it very easy to tear myself away to-night," he says, bent on revenge, and smiling tenderly at Portia. "So!" says Dulce, with a shrug and a light laugh that reduces his attempt at scorn to a puerile effort unworthy of notice; "a compliment to _you_ Portia; and--the other thing to me. We thank you, Roger. Come." She lays her hand on Portia's, and draws her toward the window. Passing by Uncle Christopher's chair, she lets her fingers fall upon his shoulder, and wander across it, so as just to touch his neck, with a caressing movement. Then she steps out on the verandah, followed by Portia, and both girls running down the stone steps are soon lost to sight among the flowers. CHAPTER IV. "'Tis not mine to forget. Yet can I not Remember what I would or what were well. Memory plays tyrant with me, by a wand I cannot master!" --G. MELLEN. PAST the roses, past the fragrant mignonette they go, the moon's soft radiance rendering still more fair the whiteness of their rounded arms. The dew lies heavy on leaf and flower. Motionless stand the roses, and the drooping lilies, and the pansies, purple and yellow. "God Almighty," says Bacon, "first planted a garden; and indeed it is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man!" Here, now, in this particular garden, where all is so deeply tranquil, it seems as if life itself is at a standstill, and sin and suffering, joy and ambition, are alike unknown. A "pure pleasure" it is indeed to gaze upon it, and a great refreshment to any soul tired, or overwrought, or sorrowful.