tangle of bamboo all silvery with the sunshine.

At the beginning of our walk my guest's conversation was of the many
happy nothings I suppose most girls indulge in, but as we went farther
she had less to say. Her eyes grew wider and darker as the beauty of the
place pressed in upon her. We found a seat arched over with a blossoming
vine and sat down for rest.

Zura was quiet and, finding she avoided every allusion to home, I
drifted into telling her a bit of the garden's history--its unknown age,
the real princes and princesses who in the long ago had trodden its
crooked paths. Legend said that so great was their love for it their
spirits refused to abide in Nirvana and came to dwell in the depths of
the dim old garden. I told her the spot had been my play place, my haven
of rest for thirty years, and how for want of company I had peopled it
with lords and ladies of my fancy. Armored knights and dark-haired dames
of my imagination had lived and laughed and loved in the shadows of its
soft beauty. Anxious to entertain and pleased to have an audience, I
opened wider the doors to my sentimental self than I really intended. I
went from story to story till the air was filled with the sweetness of
romance and poetry. In the midst of a wondrous love legend a noise,
sudden but suppressed, stopped me short. I looked at the girl. She was
shaking with laughter.

When I asked why, she managed to gasp, "Oh, but you're an old softy!"

It was disrespectful, but it was also true and, though I felt as if a
hot wind had been blowing on my face, there was such a note of
comradeship in her voice that it cheered me to the point of joining in
her merriment. Our laugh seemed to sweep away many of the years that
stood between us and the old thrill of anticipation passed through me.

We found many other things to talk about, for I searched every crook and
cranny of my old brain for bits of any sort with which to interest her.
The last turn in the path leading back to the house found us friendly
and with a taste or two in common.

Once, seeing something near by she wanted to sketch, she whispered to
me as familiarly as if I were the same age, "For the love of Mike! hold
my hat while I put that on paper."

I had no acquaintance with "Mike" and she was bareheaded, but so
infectious was her eagerness that I felt about twenty.

What she wanted to sketch was only a small girl in a gay kimono and a
big red umbrella, but the tiny mite made a v