monoliths of mossy gray and weather-worn stones, disposed in a circle.
Probably these were all that remained of some Druidical temple, and
archaeologists came from far and near to view the weird relics. And in
the middle of the circle stood the cottage: a thatched dwelling, which
might have had to do with a fairy tale, with its whitewashed walls
covered with ivy, and its latticed windows, on the ledges of which stood
pots of homely flowers. There was no fence round this rustic dwelling,
as the monoliths stood as guardians, and the space between the cottage
walls and the gigantic stones was planted thickly with fragrant English
flowers. Snapdragon, sweet-william, marigolds, and scented clove
carnations, were all to be found there: also there was thyme, mint,
sage, and other pot-herbs. And the whole perfumed space was girdled by
trees old and young, which stood back from the emerald beauty of
untrimmed lawns. A more ideal spot for a dreamer, or an artist, or a
hermit, or for the straying prince of a fairy tale, it would have been
quite impossible to find. Miss Greeby's vigorous and coarse personality
seemed to break in a noisy manner--although she did not utter a single
word--the enchanted silence of the solitary place.

However, the intruder was too matter-of-fact to trouble about the
sequestered liveliness of this unique dwelling. She strode across the
lawns, and passing beyond the monoliths, marched like an invader up the
narrow path between the radiant flower-beds. From the tiny green door
she raised the burnished knocker and brought it down with an emphatic
bang. Shortly the door opened with a pettish tug, as though the person
behind was rather annoyed by the noise, and a very tall, well-built,
slim young man made his appearance on the threshold. He held a palette
on the thumb of one hand, and clutched a sheaf of brushes, while another
brush was in his mouth, and luckily impeded a rather rough welcome. The
look in a pair of keen blue eyes certainly seemed to resent the