The
little house folk lived much in it, and were given to
taking picnic suppers in the grassy corner beyond the
brook and sitting about in it through the twilights
when great night moths sailed athwart the velvet gloom.
One evening Owen Ford found Leslie alone in it. Anne
and Gilbert were away, and Susan, who was expected back
that night, had not yet returned.
The northern sky was amber and pale green over the fir
tops. The air was cool, for August was nearing
September, and Leslie wore a crimson scarf over her
white dress. Together they wandered through the
little, friendly, flower-crowded paths in silence.
Owen must go soon. His holiday was nearly over.
Leslie found her heart beating wildly. She knew that
this beloved garden was to be the scene of the binding
words that must seal their as yet unworded
understanding.
" Some evenings a strange odor blows down the air of
this garden, like a phantom perfume," said Owen. "I
have never been able to discover from just what flower
it comes. It is elusive and haunting and wonderfully
sweet.
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