ight back from the time I met him in Macrae's form at
Randell's I've never really liked him."

It was curious how one could grow more and more intimate with a person,
and all the time never really like him; so intimate with him as to
intrust him with the disposal of a wrecked love-affair, and all the
while never really like him. Why, then, had he invited Maurice to go
abroad? Perhaps he wanted the company of someone he could faintly
despise. Even friendship must pay tribute to human vanity. Life became a
merciless business when one ceased to stand alone. The herding instinct
of man was responsible for the corruption of civilization, and Michael
thought of the bestiality of a crowd. How loathsome humanity was in the
aggregate, but individually how rare, how wonderful.

Michael walked boldly enough toward Tinderbox Lane; and when he rang the
bell of Mulberry Cottage not a qualm of sentiment assailed him. He was
definitely pleased with himself, as he stood outside the door in the
wall, to think with what a serenity of indifference he was able to visit
a place so much endeared to him a little time ago.

Mrs. Gainsborough answered the door and nearly fell upon Michael's
neck.

"Good Land! Here's a surprise."

"It's almost more of a surprise for me to see you, Mrs. Gainsborough."

"Why, who else should you see?"

"I was beginning to think you never existed. Can I come in?"

"Sylvia's indoors," she said warningly.

"I rather wanted to see her."

"She's been carrying on alarming about you ever since you stole her
Lily. And she didn't take me on her knee and cuddle me, when she found
you were gone off. How do you like me new frock?"

Michael thought that in her checkered black and green gingham she looked
like an old Summer number of an illustrated magazine, and he told her
so.

"Well, there! Did you ever? I never did. There's a bouquet to hand a
lady! Back number! Whatever next? I wonder you hadn't the liberty to say
I'd rose from the grave."

"Aren't I to see Sylvia?" Michael asked, laughing.

"Well, don't blame me if she packs you off with a flea in your ear, as
they say--well, she is a Miss Temper, and no mistake. How do you like me
garden?"

Mulberry Cottage was just the bower of greenery that Michael had
supposed he would find in early June.

"Actually roses," he exclaimed. "Or at least there will be very soon."

"Oh, yes. Glory de Die-Johns. That was always Pa's favorite. That and a
good snooze of a