“Know him by name! I reckon I do! Didn’t he raise Eileen Purcell and Jem Gaunt, and bring all those Chinese and Indian plants into the country, and hybridise Mephistopheles? Canterton! It’s a name to conjure with.” Eve felt an indefinable pleasure in listening to the fame of the man whose work she was learning to share, for it was fame to be spoken of with delight by this old Latimer gardener. “Mr. Canterton’s writing a book, is he?” “Yes, and I am painting some of the pictures for it.” “Are you now? I have a notion I should like that book. Aye, it should be a book!” “The work of years.” “Sure! None of your cheap popular sixpenny amateur stuff. It’ll be what you call ‘de lucks,’ won’t it? Such things cost money.” Eve was silent a moment. The old man was genuine enough, and not touting. “Perhaps Mr. Canterton would send you a copy. You would appreciate it. I’ll give him your name.” “No, no, though I thank you, miss. A good tool is worth its money. I’m not a man to get a good thing for nothing. I reckon I’ll buy that there book.” “It won’t be published for two or three years.” “Oh, I’m in no hurry! I’m used to waiting for things to grow solid. Sapwood ain’t no use to anybody.” Eve had a desire to see the hill garden by moonlight, and the head gardener was sympathetic. “We lock the big gate at dusk when his lordship’s away. But you come round at nine o’clock to the postern by the dovecot, and I’ll let you in.” The hill garden’s mood was suited to the full moon. Eve had dreamt of such enchantments, but had never seen them till that summer night. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the cypresses and cedars were like the black spires of a city. The alleys and walks were tunnels of gloom. Here and there a statue or a fountain glimmered, and the great water cisterns were pools of ink reflecting the huge white disc of the moon. Eve wandered to and fro along the moonlit walks and up and down the dim stairways. The stillness was broken only by the splash of water, and by the turret clock striking the quarters. It was the night of her last day at Latimer. She would be sorry to leave it, and yet, to-morrow she would be at Fernhill. Lynette’s glowing head flashed into her thoughts, and a rush of tenderness overtook her. If life could be like the joyous eyes of the child, if passion went no further, if all problems remained at the age of seven! How would Canterton like the pictures she had painted? A thrill went through her, and at the same time she felt that the garden was growing cold. A sense of unrest ruffled the calm of the moonlit night. She felt near to some big, indefinable force, on the edge of the sea, vaguely afraid of she knew not what. She would see him to-morrow. It was to be the day of the Fernhill garden party, and she had promised Lynette that she would go. She felt glad, yet troubled, half tempted to shirk the affair, and to stay with her mother at Orchards Corner.