"Well, we might----" she glanced at the house, and at him, and at the house again, so that Ben grasped what she would never be so brazen as to put in words, namely that the stone seat on the other side of the bed of daffodils stood very near the house wall, and that this part of the wall was blind, without any windows to overlook the seat; that the jonquils would not tell and the stone would be warm in the sun so much like a sun of June. She sat there with a woman's grace; without a smile, shyly touched the stone beside her. The seat was small, yet she could only mean that he was to be there, that near to her, breathing her fragrance even as fantasies of twelve troubled nights had dwelt upon it. "Now tell me, Benjamin, tell me truly the reason that brought you here?" "Oh, to--to pluck this violet, and look on it, whether it be, as they tell, the flower of modesty." "Now you laugh at me." "Never." "Any scholar may laugh at me, Benjamin. I'm not learned." "Nor I. But as I remember--well, not the books but what my mother used to say, maybe I ought to take from this garden a sprig of rosemary, but there'll be none in the bloom this time of year. Oh, Faith, I'm no scholar at all. My brother is the wise one." "Ay, faraway Reuben. Monday, you know, was the first and only time I've laid eyes on him. I thought only his body was there, and he the other side of the moon--but of course a funeral is a poor time to meet anyone.... Rosemary? Why rosemary? Rosemary's for remembrance." "That's what my mother used to tell. You see, I may be going away," said Ben, and at the moment quite believed it. "Going away?" Her face was a new miracle because of nearness. "You heard what happened to the _Iris_?" "Oh!" She caught his hand in both her own. "Yes, I heard of course. You mean--what do you mean, Ben?"