pted. You will take to writing pastorals, and
I--I--"

Isobel, from her seat between us, smiled up at him. Touched by the
yellow moonlight, her face seemed almost ethereal.

"You," she said, "should paint a vision of the 'enchanted land.' You see
those blurred woods, and the fields sloping up to the mists? Isn't that
a perfect impression of the world unseen, half understood? Oh, how can
you talk of such a place corrupting anybody, Allan!"

"I withdraw the term," he answered. "Yet Arnold knows what I meant very
well. This place soothes while the city frets. Which state of mind do
you think, Miss Isobel, draws from a man his best work?"

"Don't ask me enigmas, Allan," she murmured. "I am too happy to think,
too happy to want to do anything more than exist. I wish we lived here
always! Why didn't we come here long ago?"

"You forget the wonders of our climate," I remarked. "A month ago you
might have stood where you are now, and seen nothing. You would have
shivered with the cold. The field scents, the birds, the very insects
were unborn. It is all a matter of seasons. What to-day is beautiful was
yesterday a desert."

She shook her head slowly. Bareheaded, she was leaning now over the
little gate, and her eyes sought the stars.

"I will not believe it," she declared. "I will not believe that it is
not always beautiful here. Arnold, Allan, can you smell the
honeysuckle?"

"And the hay," Allan answered, smoking vigorously. "To-morrow we shall
be sneezing every few minutes. Have you ever had hay fever, Isobel?"

She laughed at him scornfully.

"You poor old thing!" she exclaimed. "You should wear a hat."

"A hat," Allan protested, "is of no avail against hay fever. It's the
most insidious thing in the world, and is no respecter of youth. You, my
dear Isobel, might be its first victim."

"Pooh! I catch nothing!" she declared, "and you mustn't either. I'm sure
you ought to be able to paint some beautiful pictures down here, Allan.
And, Arnold, you shall have your writing-table out under the chestnut
tree there. You will be so comfortable, and I'm sure you'll be able to
finish your story splendidly."

"You are very anxious to dispose of us all here, Isobel," I remarked.
"What do you propose to do yourself?"

"Oh, paint a little, I suppose," she answered, "and--think! There is so
much to think about here."

I shook my head.

"I am beginning to wonder," I said, "whether we did wisely to bring
you."

"And wh