I led her to my new south door, proudly showing my new lawn and the terrace, and telling her where the roses were to be, and the sundial, and dilating on the work my own hands had done. With a silly, boyish enthusiasm, I even displayed the callouses and invited her to feel of them, which she did as one humours a child, while I thrilled quite unchildishly at the touch of her finger tips. Then we peeped through the glass doors. The low sun was streaming in through the west window and disclosed the old oak beam across the ceiling. Hard Cider had erected the frame of the bookcase and double settle, which would perfectly match the mantels as soon as the molding was on. One side of the settle faced toward one smoky old fireplace, the other toward the second. "Two fireplaces! What luxury!" she exclaimed. "You see," said I, "when I get tired of reading philosophy at the east fireplace, I'll just come around the corner and read 'Alice in Wonderland' at the west chimney nook." "Double fireplaces--twin fireplaces--twin fires! That's it, Twin Fires! That ought to be the name of your house." "You're right!" I cried, delighted. "I've never been able to think of a name. That's the inevitable one--that's Flaubert's one right word. You must come to my christening party and break a bottle of wine on the hearth." She smiled wistfully, as she turned away from the window. "I must surely go to supper," she said. "Good-bye, and thank you for your wonderful concert." We walked to the road, but to my surprise she did not turn toward the village but toward Bert's. A sudden light came. "Are you the broken-down boarder?" I cried. The gurgle welled up, and the blue eyes twinkled, but she made no reply. "Just for that," said I, "I won't carry back Mrs. Bert's basket." As we entered the Temple's yard, Mrs. Bert stood in the kitchen door. "Well, you two seem to have got acquainted," she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. "Miss Goodwin, this is Mr. Upton I told you about. Mr. Upton, this is Miss Goodwin I told you about." "Mrs. Temple," said I, "you are another. You didn't tell me." "Young man," she retorted, "where's my basket?" "I left it behind--on purpose," said I. "Then you'll hev ter come home to yer dinner to-morrow," she said. "Well, I'm willing," I answered. "I guess you be," said she. At supper she returned to the theme, which appeared to amuse her endlessly. "Miss Goodwin," she said, "I want ter warn you thet Mr. Upton's terrible afraid somebody's goin' ter advise him how ter build his garden. He's a regular man." I replied quickly: "Your warning is too late," said I; "Miss Goodwin has already begun by naming my place." "You can change the name, you know," the girl smiled. "How can I?" I answered, with great sternness. "It's the right one." Whereupon I went up to my work, and listened to the sounds of soft singing in the room across the hall. Chapter VII THE GHOST OF ROME IN ROSES