It was a lovely night in the end of April; the moon was full, and
glimmering with sheeny whiteness over the distant hills. The garden at
Mount Severn was an old-fashioned one, laid out in the early Elizabethan
style in stately terraces and winding paths.

On each terrace were planted beds of luxuriant scarlet geraniums and
early spring flowers. Every once in a while one came across a huge copper
beech, and gloomy close-clipped hedges of yew divided the garden proper
from the adjacent park.

Somewhere in the distance could be heard the trickling of a tiny rivulet,
which supplied the fountain in the middle of the garden. There were many
roughly-hewn, picturesque-looking rustic chairs scattered about, and near
one of these Lady Margaret paused.

"May we sit here?" she said, turning to her hostess. "I really think this
is the most delightful garden I ever saw in my life. They talk about
Devonshire; I never saw anything half so lovely there."

"Yes, certainly it is pretty," assented its proprietress. "But where is
Mademoiselle Laurentia?"

"In her favorite nook beside the old copper beech. See, you can catch a
glimpse of her if you look round that tree."

Yes, there was Mademoiselle Laurentia, and a very insignificant little
person she appeared at first sight. Her hands were clasped, and she was
apparently deep in thought. She was clad in a gown of some soft shimmery
white material, which fell in graceful folds about her, and in the clear
beams of the moon looked like a robe of woven silver. Round her throat