the picture. But the charm had gone out of the tribute; and
looking at the picture, he thought how scant was the justice it

did her. Her face was so much sweeter, her eyes so much softer,
her hair so much more lustrous. The soul of his love had gone

from the room and from the picture and from his dreams. When he
tried to think of the Alice he loved he saw, not the shadowy

spirit occupant of the west gable, but the young girl who had
stood under the pine, beautiful with the beauty of moonlight, of

starshine on still water, of white, wind-swayed flowers growing in
silent, shadowy places. He did not then realize what this meant:

had he realized it he would have suffered bitterly; as it was he
felt only a vague discomfort--a curious sense of loss and gain

commingled.
He saw her again that afternoon on her way home. She did not

pause by the garden but walked swiftly past. Thereafter, every
day for a week he watched unseen to see her pass his home. Once a

little child was with her, clinging to her hand. No child had
ever before had any part in the shy man's dream life. But that

night in the twilight the vision of the rocking-chair was a girl
in a blue print dress, with a little, golden-haired shape at her

knee--a shape that lisped and prattled and called her "mother;"
and both of them were his.

It was the next day that he failed for the first time to put
flowers in the west gable. Instead, he cut a loose handful of

daffodils and, looking furtively about him as if committing a
crime, he laid them across the footpath under the pine. She must

pass that way; her feet would crush them if she failed to see
them. Then he slipped back into his garden, half exultant, half

repentant. From a safe retreat he saw her pass by and stoop to
lift his flowers. Thereafter he put some in the same place every

day.
When Alice Reade saw the flowers she knew at once who had put them

there, and divined that they were for her. She lifted them
tenderly in much surprise and pleasure. She had heard all about

Jasper Dale and his shyness; but before she had heard about him
she had seen him in church and liked him. She thought his face

and his dark blue eyes beautiful; she even liked the long brown
hair that Carlisle people laughed at. That he was quite different

from other people she had understood at once, but she thought the
difference in his favour. Perhaps her sensitive nature divined

and responded to the beauty in his. At least, in her eyes Jasper
Dale was never a ridiculous figure.

When she heard the story of the west gable, which most people
disbelieved, she believed it, although she did not understand it.

It invested the shy man with interest and romance. She felt that
she would have liked, out of no impertinent curiosity, to solve

the mystery; she believed that it contained the key to his
character.

Thereafter, every day she found flowers under the pine tree; she
wished to see Jasper to thank him, unaware that he watched her

daily from the screen of shrubbery in his garden; but it was some
time before she found the opportunity. One evening she passed

when he, not expecting her, was leaning against his garden fence
with a book in his hand. She stopped under the pine.

"Mr. Dale," she said softly, "I want to thank you for your
flowers."

Jasper, startled, wished that he might sink into the ground. His
anguish of embarrassment made her smile a little. He could not

speak, so she went on gently.
"It has been so good of you. They have given me so much pleasure--

I wish you could know how much."
"It was nothing--nothing," stammered Jasper. His book had fallen

on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and held it out to
him.

"So you like Ruskin," she said. "I do, too. But I haven't read
this."

"If you--would care--to read it--you may have it," Jasper
contrived to say.

She carried the book away with her. He did not again hide when
she passed, and when she brought the book back they talked a

little about it over the fence. He lent her others, and got some
from her in return; they fell into the habit of discussing them.

Jasper did not find it hard to talk to her now; it seemed as if he
were talking to his dream Alice, and it came strangely natural to

him. He did not talk volubly, but Alice thought what he did say
was worth while. His words lingered in her memory and made music.

She always found his flowers under the pine, and she always wore
some of them, but she did not know if he noticed this or not.

One evening Jasper walked shyly with her from his gate up the pine
hill. After that he always walked that far with her. She would

have missed him much if he had failed to do so; yet it did not
occur to her that she was learning to love him. She would have

laughed with girlish scorn at the idea. She liked him very much;
she thought his nature beautiful in its simplicity and purity; in

spite of his shyness she felt more delightfully at home in his
society than in that of any other person she had ever met. He was

one of those rare souls whose friendship is at once a pleasure and
a benediction, showering light from their own crystal clearness

into all the dark corners in the souls of others, until, for the
time being at least, they reflected his own nobility. But she

never thought of love. Like other girls she had her dreams of a
possible Prince Charming, young and handsome and debonair. It

never occurred to her that he might be found in the shy, dreamy
recluse of Golden Milestone.

In August came a day of gold and blue. Alice Reade, coming
through the trees, with the wind blowing her little dark love-

locks tricksily about under her wide blue hat, found a fragrant
heap of mignonette under the pine. She lifted it and buried her

face in it, drinking in the wholesome, modest perfume.
She had hoped Jasper would be in his garden, since she wished to

ask him for a book she greatly desired to read. But she saw him
sitting on the rustic seat at the further side. His back was

towards her, and he was partiallyscreened by a copse of lilacs.
Alice, blushing slightly, unlatched the garden gate, and went down

the path. She had never been in the garden before, and she found
her heart beating in a strange fashion.

He did not hear her footsteps, and she was close behind him when
she heard his voice, and realized that he was talking to himself,

in a low, dreamy tone. As the meaning of his words dawned on her
consciousness she started and grew crimson. She could not move or

speak; as one in a dream she stood and listened to the shy man's
reverie, guiltless of any thought of eavesdropping.

"How much I love you, Alice," Jasper Dale was saying, unafraid,
with no shyness in voice or manner. "I wonder what you would say

if you knew. You would laugh at me--sweet as you are, you would
laugh in mockery. I can never tell you. I can only dream of

telling you. In my dream you are standing here by me, dear. I
can see you very plainly, my sweet lady, so tall and gracious,

with your dark hair and your maiden eyes. I can dream that I tell
you my love; that--maddest, sweetest dream of all--that you love

me in return. Everything is possible in dreams, you know, dear.
My dreams are all I have, so I go far in them, even to dreaming

that you are my wife. I dream how I shall fix up my dull old
house for you. One room will need nothing more--it is your room,

dear, and has been ready for you a long time--long before that day