working for the next generation. The little I've done I can pass over to
my son, and I hope he'll do more."

He laid his hand on the garnered sweets beside him. The herbs were
uppermost. "Spearmint!" he said. Sabrina nodded, and he ate a leaf.
Then one after another he took up the herbs, southernwood and all, and
bruised them to get their separate fragrance. It was a keen pleasure to
him, and Sabrina saw it and blessed Clelia in her heart. Presently he
sat back in his chair and regarded her musingly. A softened look came
into his eyes. A smile, all sweetness, overspread his face. It gave him
his boyhood's mien.

"I'll tell you what, Bina," he said, "in that first rough-and-tumble
before I made my way, you did me a lot of good."

Sabrina lay and looked at him. Even her eyes had a still solemnity.

"You wrote me a little note."

More color surged into her face, but she did not stir.

"I was pretty ambitious then," he went on musingly. "My wife was
ambitious, too. That was before we were engaged, you understand. We got
kind of carried away by people and money and honors--that kind of thing,
you know. Well, that little note, Bina. There wasn't anything particular
in it, except at the end you said, 'I sha'n't ever forget to hope you
will be good.' It was queer, but it made me feel kind of responsible to
you. I thought of you down here in your garden, and--well, I don't know,
Bina. I showed that note to my wife, and she said, 'Bina must be a
dear.'"

Sabrina's eyes questioned him.

"Yes," he said frankly. "She's a dear, too--only different. It's been
all right, Bina."

"Ain't that good!" she whispered happily. "I'm glad."

He had pulled out his watch, and at that moment Richmond's voice sounded
clearer, as the two out there in the garden came to summon him.

"By George!" said Greenleaf Gilman, "I've got to go."

He rose, and took her hand. He stood there for a moment, holding it, and
they looked at each other in a faithful trust.

"You take some southernwood," counseled Sabrina, and he laid her hand
gently down, to select his posy.

"I wish your wife could have some," Sabrina went on, in a wistful
eagerness, "I don't seem to have a thing to send her."

"I'll tell her all about it," said her friend. "I'll tell her you're a
dear still, only more so. She'll understand. Good-by, Bina."

When his carriage had left the gate, and Clelia came in with that last
look of her lover still mirrored in her eyes, Sabrina l