whispered directions concerning a particular bush of pink tea-roses.
"Get four or five," he instructed.
The grass was damp and the earth loose under Paul's feet. The grounds stretched darkly away toward the orange windows of the Ashmill house, partly concealed behind black clumps of shrubbery. He crept beside the bushes, starting at vague sounds. His nerves were prepared for anything that might come bounding out at him. A dog's bark would have been welcome, for it would have dispelled the weird silence. Walter would not have understood his fears—no other boy would have—only he was afraid of the dark, and no one in the world must ever suspect.
The air was heavy with a nameless blend of odours. He closed his eyes and pictured Phœbe Meddar, white and gold, blue and pink, fresh, cool and mysterious. The tea-roses were in the farthermost corner. Dewdrops ran down his sleeve as he cut the stems. Thorns pricked his wrists. One; two, three, four, and a lovely bud. It seemed a pity, but there were hundreds left. He stole back and presented his flowers in timorous triumph. Walter concealed them under his coat and they regained the road.
Before Walter's gate they made an arrangement to meet early in the morning, then said good night.
"I'd like to have the bud," Paul said, as Walter closed the gate.
Walter detached the bud from the bouquet and Paul ran home.
In the morning Walter failed to appear at the rendezvous and Mrs. Dreer said he had already gone to the post office, where the waggons were to start. With the rose-bud and a picnic basket in his hand, Paul hurried to the post office. Among the boys and girls already assembled he detected the form of Phœbe Meddar. She
