dancing feet and singing, and had returned no more.

For a quarter of a century, the garden had lain desolate. Summers came
and went, but only a few straggling blooms made their way above the
mass of weeds. In early Autumn, thistles and milkweed took possession
of the place, the mournful purple of their flowering hiding the garden
beneath trappings of woe. And at night, when the Autumn moon shone
dimly, frail ghosts of dead flowers were set free from the thistles and
milkweed. The wind of Indian Summer, itself a ghost, convoyed them
about the garden, but they never went beyond it. Each year the panoply
of purple spread farther, more surely hiding the brave blooms beneath.

Far down the path, beside the broken gate, a majestic cypress cast
portentous gloom. Across from it, and quite hiding the ruin of the
gate, was a rose-bush, which, every June, put forth one perfect white
rose. Love had come through the gate and Love had gone out again, but
this one flower was left behind.

Brambles grew about the doorstep, and the hinges of the door were deep
in rust. No friendly light gleamed at night from the lattice, a beacon
to the wayfarer or a message of cheer to the disheartened, since the
little house was alone. The secret spinners had hung a drapery of
cobwebs before the desolate windows, as though to veil the loneliness
from passers-by. No fire warmed the solitary hearth, no gay and
careless laughter betrayed the sleeping echoes into answer. Within the
house were only dreams, which never had come true.

A bit of sewing yet lay upon the marble-topped table in the
sitting-room, and an embroidery frame, holding still a square of fine
linen, had fallen from a chair. An open book was propped against the