our
hearts with your singing."

Diana, roused from her thoughts, looked up to see Max Errington
regarding her with the old, faintly amused mockery in his eyes.

She shook hands.

"I don't believe you've got a heart to break," she retorted, smiling.

"Oh, mine was broken long before I heard you sing. Otherwise I would
not answer for the consequences of that sad little song of yours. What
is it called?"

"'The Haven of Memory,'" replied Diana, as Errington skilfully piloted
her to a small table standing by itself in an alcove of the supper-room.

"What a misleading name! Wouldn't 'The _Hell_ of Memory' be more
appropriate--more true to life?"

"I suppose," answered Diana soberly, "that it might appear differently
to different people."

"You mean that the garden of memory may have several aspects--like a
house? I'm afraid mine faces north. Yours, I expect, is full of
spring flowers"--smiling a little quizzically.

"With the addition of a few weeds," she answered.

"Weeds? Surely not? Who planted them there?" His keen, penetrating
eyes were fixed on her face.

Diana was silent, her fingers trifling nervously with the salt in one
of the little silver cruets, first piling it up into a tiny mound, and
then flattening it down again and patterning its surface with
criss-cross lines.

There was no one near. In the alcove Errington had chosen, the two
were completely screened from the rest of the room by a carved oak
pillar and velvet curtains.

He laid his hand over the restless fingers, holding them in a sure,
firm clasp that brought back vividly to her mind the remembrance of
that day when he had helped her up the steps of the quayside at
Crailing.

"Diana"--his voice deepened a little--"am I responsible for any of the
weeds in your garden?"

Her hand trembled a little under his. After a moment she threw back
her head defiantly and met his glance.

"Perhaps there's a stinging-nettle or two labelled with your name," she
answered lightly. "The Nettlewort Erringtonia," she added, smiling.

Diana was growing up rapidly.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you
that I'm sorry--that I'd uproot them if I could?"

She looked away from him in silence. He could not see her expression,
only the pure outline of her cheek and a little pulse that was beating
rapidly in her throat.

With a sudden, impetuous movement he released her hand, almost flinging
it from him.

"My ap