makes men grateful and even women glad, as they are glad of a beautiful child or a perfect flower.
From the steps of the little pavilion Sara Harden, standing in a flood of sunlight, perceives Margaret's white drapery beneath the sombre cypress.
"Margaret! Margaret—O Mar-ga-ret!"
A handkerchief is waved in answered greeting from the shadowy corner of the garden.
"Come here, I say; don't you hear me?" She had not said it before.
Stopping only to gather a shaft of golden lilies, Margaret comes obedient to the small tyrant of the iron will and caressing voice.
"Where have you been? How white you look—b-r-r-r-r-r! what were you doing in the one dark spot of all this pleasant garden? An unhealthy creature, mousing about in creepy corners instead of sunning yourself in the summer-house."
Margaret has drawn near by this time, and stands, with a sad smile on her face, looking at the joyous creature before her, thoughtlessly happy, full of health and brilliant vitality.
"You have been prowling about that old, forgotten tomb with an uncanny joy that is positively immoral. What do you mean by wearing that look of stoical gloom, in the face
