patiently beneath a certain cedar--not the one in the picture, I know,
but--"

"I was not waiting," she said indignantly, "I was picking fir-cones for
the schoolroom fire--"

"Fir-cones, my dear, do not grow on cedars, and schoolroom fires were
not made in June in my young days."

"And anyhow it isn't the same cedar."

"It has made me fond of all cedars for its sake," he answered, "and it
reminds me that you are the same young girl still--"

She crossed the room to his side, and together they looked out of the
window where, upon the lawn of their Hampshire cottage, a ragged Lebanon
stood in a solitary state.

"You're as full of dreams as ever," she said gently, "and I don't regret
the check a bit--really. Only it would have been more real if it had
been the original tree, wouldn't it?"

"That was blown down years ago. I passed the place last year, and
there's not a sign of it left," he replied tenderly. And presently, when
he released her from his side, she went up to the wall and carefully
dusted the picture Sanderson had made of the cedar on their present
lawn. She went all round the frame with her tiny handkerchief, standing
on tiptoe to reach the top rim.

"What I like about it," said the old fellow to himself when his wife had