She reached a small stone basin surmounted by a statue of Plenty, whose inverted horn suggested a copious stream long since choked up. Behind the fountain there was a stone bench with a high back. Peeping behind this, Phoebe found that a second seat was placed beyond the back, inviting a seclusion whose expected purpose was distinctly suggested by a sly little Cupid on a pedestal, holding one forefinger to his smiling lips. At this moment Phoebe was conscious of a distant mumbling to her left, and, glancing quickly in that direction, she saw a plainly dressed, bareheaded man of medium height just turning into the main walk out of a by-path, where he had been hidden from view by a thick hedge of privet. His eyes were turned upon some slips of paper which he held in one hand. Could this be he? Shakespeare! The immortal Prince of Poets! To Mary Burton, the approach of a mere player would have given little concern. But Phoebe Wise, better knowing his unrivalled rank, was seized with a violent attack of diffidence, and in an instant she dodged behind the stone seat and sat in hiding with a beating heart. The steps of the new-comer slowly approached. Phoebe knew not whether pleasure or a painful fear were stronger within her. Here was indeed the culmination of her strange adventure! There, beyond the stone which mercifully concealed her, He was approaching--the wondrous Master Mind of literature. Would he go by unheeding? Could she let him pass on without one glance--one word? And yet, how address him? How dare to show her face? The slow steps ceased and at the same time he fell silent. She could picture him gazing with unconscious eyes at the fountain while within he listened to the Genius that prompted his majestic works. Again the gravel creaked, and then she knew that he had seated himself on the other bench. The two were sitting back to back with only a stone partition between them. To her own surprise, the diffidence which had oppressed her seemed now to be gradually passing off. She still realized the privilege she enjoyed in thus sharing his seat, but perhaps Mary Burton was gaining her head as well as her heart, for she positively began to think of leaving her concealment, contemplating almost unmoved a meeting with her demi-god. Then he spoke. "The infant first--then the school-boy," he muttered. "So far good! The third age--m--m--m--" There was a pause before he proceeded, slowly and distinctly: "Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing his heart out in a woful ballad-- m--m--m--Ah!-- Made to his mistress' eyebrow." He chuckled audibly a moment, and then, speaking a little louder: "Fenton to the life, poor lad!" he said. Phoebe sat up very straight with a startled movement. Oh, to think of it! That she should have forgotten Sir Guy! To have sought Will Shakespeare for the sole purpose of tracing her threatened lover--and then to forget him for a simple name--a mere celebrity!