a tree could only have lived its life in such a garden. At least it
seemed so to me. The high, dim-colored walls, with their curious, low
corner towers and the leafage of the wall fruits spread against their
brick, inclosed it embracingly, as if they were there to take care of
it and its beauty. But the tree itself seemed to have grown there in all
its dignified loveliness of shadow to take care of Mrs. MacNairn, who
sat under it. I felt as if it loved and was proud of her.

I have heard clever literary people speak of Mrs. MacNairn as a
"survival of type." Sometimes clever people bewilder me by the terms
they use, but I thought I understood what they meant in her case. She
was quite unlike the modern elderly woman, and yet she was not in the
least old-fashioned or demodee. She was only exquisitely distinct.

When she rose from her chair under the apple-tree boughs and came
forward to meet me that afternoon, the first things which struck me were
her height and slenderness and her light step. Then I saw that her clear
profile seemed cut out of ivory and that her head was a beautiful shape
and was beautifully set. Its every turn and movement was exquisite. The
mere fact that both her long, ivory hands enfolded mine thrilled me.
I wondered if it were possible that she could be unaware of her
loveliness. Beautiful people are thrilling to me, and Mrs. MacNairn has
always seemed more so than any one else. This is what her son once said
of her:

"She is not merely beautiful; she is Beauty--Beauty's very spirit moving
about among us mortals; pure Beauty."

She drew me to a chair under her tree, and we sat down together. I felt
as if she were glad that I had come. The watching look I had seen in her