e
Conrad Lagrange and Czar lounged on the front porch.

Once, the dog rose quietly, and, walking sedately to the edge of the
porch toward the west, stood for some minutes gazing intently into the
dark green mass of the orange grave. At last, as if concluding that
whatever it was it was all right, he went calmly back to his place
beside the novelist's chair.

"Do you know,"--said the artist, as they sat on the porch that evening,
with their after-dinner pipes,--"I believe this old place is haunted."

"If it isn't, it ought to be," answered the other, contentedly--playing
with Czar's silky ears. "A good ghost would fit in nicely here, wouldn't
it--or he, or she. Its spookship would travel far to find a more
delightful place for spooking in, and--providing, of course, she were a
perfectly respectable hant--what a charming addition to our family he
would make. When it was weary of moping and mowing and sobbing and
wailing and gibbering, she could curl up at the foot of your bed and
sleep; as Czar, here, curls up and sleeps at the foot of mine. A good
ghost, you know--if he becomes really attached to you--is as constant
and faithful and affectionate and companionable as a good dog."

"B-r-r-r," said the artist. And Czar turned to look at him,
questioningly.

"All the same"--the painter continued--"when I was out there in the
studio, I could feel some one watching me--you know the feeling."

Conrad Lagrange returned mockingly, "I trust your over-sensitive, artistic
temperament is not to be so influenced by our ghostly visitor that you
will be unfitted for your work."

The other laughed. Then he said seriously, "Joking aside, Lagrange, I feel
a presentiment--I can't put it into words--but--I feel that I _am_ going
to begin the real work of my life right here. I"--he hesitated--"it seems
to me that I can sense some influence that I can't define--it's the
mystery of the rose garden, perhaps," he finished with another short
laugh.

The man, who, in the eyes of the world, had won so large a measure of the
success that his friend desired; and whose life was so embittered by the
things for which he was envied by many; made no reply other than his slow,
twisted smile.

Silently, they watched the purple shadows of the mountains deepen; and saw
the outlines of the tawny foothills grow vague and dim, until they were
lost in the dusky monotone of the evening. The last faint tint of sunset
color went from the sky back of the Sa