Looking curiously from this window, Conrad Lagrange uttered an
exclamation, and hurried abruptly from the building. The artist followed.

From the end of the barn, and extending, the full width of the building,
to the west line of the yard, was a rose garden--such a garden as Aaron
King had never seen. On three sides, the little plot was enclosed by a
tall hedge of Ragged Robins; above the hedge, on the south and west, was
the dark-green wall of the orange grove; on the north, the pepper and
eucalyptus trees in the yard, and a view of the distant mountains; and on
the east, the vine-hidden end of the barn. Against the southern
wall,--and, so, directly opposite the trellised, vine-covered arch of the
entrance,--a small, lattice bower, with a rustic table and seats within,
was completely covered, as was the barn, by the magically woven tapestry
of the flowers. In the corner of the hedge farthest from the entrance they
found a narrow gate. Unlike the rest of the premises, the garden was in
perfect order--the roses trimmed and cared for; the walks neatly edged and
clean; with no weed or sign of untidiness or neglect anywhere.

The two men had come upon the spot so suddenly--so unexpectedly--the
contrast with the neglected grounds and buildings was so marked--that they
looked at each other in silence. The little retreat--so lovely, so hidden
by its own beauty from the world, so cared for by careful hands--seemed
haunted by an invisible spirit. Very quietly,--almost reverently,--they
moved about; talking in low tones, as though half expecting--they knew not
what.

"Some one loves this place," said the novelist, softly, when they stood,
again, in the entrance.