lm, there had been no
allusion between mistress and gardener to that far-off fantasy, the life
of little Gargoyle. During the autumn the two drew plans together for
those spots which next spring were to blossom in the beech glade. They
sent to far-off countries for bulbs, experimented in the Heartholm
greenhouses with special soils and fertilizers, and differences of heat
and light; they transplanted, grafted, and redeveloped this and that
woodland native. Unconsciously all formal strangeness wore away,
unconsciously the old bond between Gargoyle and his mistress was
renewed.

Thus it was, without the slightest realization as to what it might lead,
that Evelyn Strang one afternoon made some trifling allusion to Berber's
association with the famous Doctor Mach. As soon as she had done so,
fearing from habit for some possible disastrous result, she tried
immediately to draw away from the subject. But the forbidden spring had
been touched--a door that had long been closed between them swung open.
Young Berber, sorting dahlia bulbs into numbered boxes, looked up; he
met her eyes unsuspiciously.

"I suppose," thoughtfully, "that that is the man to whom I should feel
more grateful than to any other human being."

The mistress of Heartholm did not reply. In spite of her tranquil air,
Evelyn Strang was gripped with a sudden apprehension. How much, how
little, did Berber know? She glanced swiftly at him, then bent her head
over her embroidery. The colored stream of Indian summer flowed around
them. A late bird poured out his little cup of song.

"My mother will not answer my questions." Young Berber, examining two
curiously formed bulbs, shook the earth from them; he stuffed them into
his trousers pocket. "But Michael got talking yesterday and told me--Did
you know, Mrs. Strang? I was thought to be an idiot until I was twelve
years old--born deaf and dumb?"

It was asked so naturally, with a scientific interest as impersonal as
if he were speaking of one of the malformed bulbs in his pocket, that at
first his mistress felt no confusion. Her eyes and hands busying
themselves with the vivid silks, she answered.

"I remember you as a little pale boy who loved flowers and did such odd,
interesting things with them. Mr. Strang and I were attracted to your
mysterious plays.... No, you never spoke, but we were not sure you could
not hear--and"--drawing a swift little breath--"we were always
interested in what--in what--you seeme