She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. Given the proper incentive, who could say that he might not likewise go nobly to some fine end? She thrilled. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. It was difficult to get right.
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