and responded to the beauty in his. At least, in her eyes Jasper
Dale was never a ridiculous figure.

When she heard the story of the west gable, which most people
disbelieved, she believed it, although she did not understand it.
It invested the shy man with interest and romance. She felt that
she would have liked, out of no impertinent curiosity, to solve
the mystery; she believed that it contained the key to his
character.

Thereafter, every day she found flowers under the pine tree; she
wished to see Jasper to thank him, unaware that he watched her
daily from the screen of shrubbery in his garden; but it was some
time before she found the opportunity. One evening she passed
when he, not expecting her, was leaning against his garden fence
with a book in his hand. She stopped under the pine.

"Mr. Dale," she said softly, "I want to thank you for your
flowers."

Jasper, startled, wished that he might sink into the ground. His
anguish of embarrassment made her smile a little. He could not
speak, so she went on gently.

"It has been so good of you. They have given me so much pleasure--
I wish you could know how much."

"It was nothing--nothing," stammered Jasper. His book had fallen
on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and held it out to
him.