She was coming out of the door as I crossed the bit of lawn, dressed not in the working clothes which she had worn on our gardening days, but all in white, with a lavender ribbon at her throat. She smiled at me brightly and ran down the steps. "Go to New York--but see Twin Fires first," she laughed. "I'm all ready for the tour." I had not quite expected so much lightness of heart from her, and I was a little piqued, perhaps, as I answered, "You don't seem very sorry that you are seeing it for the last time." She smiled into my face. "All pleasant things have to end," she said, "so why be glum about it?" "Do they have to end?" said I. "In my experience, always," she nodded. I was silent. My resolution, which I confess had wavered a little when she came through the doorway, was fixed again. Just the light banter in her tone had done it. We walked down the road, and went first around the house to take a look at the lawn and rose trellis. The young grass was already a frail green from the house to the roses, the flowers around the white sundial pedestal, while not yet in bloom, showed a mass of low foliage, the nasturtiums were already trying to cling, with the aid of strings, to the bird bath (which I had forgotten to fill), and the rose trellis, coloured green by the painters before they departed, was even now hidden slightly at the base by the vines of the new roses. "There," said I, pointing to it, "is the child of your brain, your aqueduct of roses, which you refuse to see in blossom." "The child of my hands, too; don't forget that!" she laughed. "Of _our_ hands," I corrected. "The ghost of Rome in roses," she said, half to herself. "It will be very lovely another year, when the vines have covered it." "And it will be then, I trust," said I, "rather less like 'the rose of beauty on the brow of chaos.' The lawn will look like a lawn by then, and possibly I shall have achieved a sundial plate." "Possibly you will," said she, with a suspicious twinkle. "And possibly you'll have remembered to fill your bird bath." She turned abruptly into the house and emerged with a pitcher of water, tiptoeing over the frail, new grass to the bath, which she filled to the brim, pouring the remainder upon the vines at the base. "My last activity shall be for the birds," she smiled, as she came back with the pitcher. As if in gratitude, a bird came winging out of the orchard behind her, and dipped his breast and bill in the water. "The darling!" I heard her exclaim, under her breath. We took the pitcher inside, and I saw her glance at the flowers in the vases. "I ought to get you some fresh ones," she said. "No," I answered. "Those shall stay a long while, in memory of the good fairy. Now I will show you my house. You have never seen my house above the first story." "It isn't proper," she laughed. "I shouldn't be even here, in the south room." "But you have been here many times." Again she laughed. "Stupid! But Mrs. Pillig wasn't here then!"