he famous springs of St.
Mary's, are mysteries hid in that book of Fate whose leaves no mortal
may turn. We prate in our shallow wisdom about causes, but the most that
we can trace is a short line of incidental occasions. A pamphlet which
Doctor Eben found in the office of a hotel was apparently the reason of
his going to St. Mary's; all the reason so far as he knew, or as any
man might know. But that man is to be pitied who lives his life out
under the impression that it is within his own guidance. Only one remove
from the life of the leaf which the winds toss where they list would be
such a life as that.

It was with no very keen interest that Doctor Eben arrived in St.
Mary's. He had some faint hope that the waters might do him good: but he
found the sandy stretches and long lines of straight firs in Canada very
monotonous; and he was already beginning to be oppressed by the sense of
homelessness. His quiet and domestic life had unfitted him for being a
wanderer, and he was already looking forward to the greater excitements
of European travel; hoping that they would prove more diverting and
entertaining than he had thus far found travel in America.

He entered St. Mary's as Hetty had done, just at sunset. It was a warm
night in June; and, after his tea at the little inn, Dr. Eben sauntered
out listlessly. The sound of merry voices in the Square repelled him;
unlike Hetty, he shrank from strange faces: turning in the direction
where it seemed stillest, he walked slowly towards the woods. He looked
curiously at the little red chapel, and at Father Antoine's cottage,
now literally imbedded in flowers. Then he paused before Hetty's tiny
house. A familiar fragrance arrested him; leaning on the paling he
looked over into the garden, started, and said, under his breath: "How
strange! How strange!" There were long straight beds of lavender and
balm, growing together, as they used to grow in the old garden at
"Gunn's." Both the balm and the lavender were in full blossom; and the
two scents mingled and separated and mingled in the warm air, like the
notes of two instruments unlike, yet in harmony. The strong lemon odor
of the balm, was persistently present like the mastering chords of the
violoncello, and the fine and subtle fragrances from the myriad cells of
the pale lavender floated above and below, now distant, now melting and
disappearing, like a delicate melody. Dr. Eben was borne away from the
present, out of himself.