e had to pay, but she was paying too. He could not take the
payment all upon himself; yet he could help to make it less of a strain
for her, and all his life was poured into the giving of this help.
Every thought, every heart-beat was for Barbara. He lived to give
himself to her, and to take what she had for him in return. With each
day that passed he realized how much more they were to each other at
this vast distance--these two, parted forever--than most men and women
living side by side in legal union. He knew that John Sanbourne was
absolutely necessary to Barbara Denin, as she was to him; and all the
incidents of their daily lives, big and small, though lived separately,
drew them together when recounted, as pearls are drawn together on a
lengthening string.

Now that the secret was out, and Lady Denin knew where John Sanbourne
had made his home, without suspecting any hidden mystery in the
coincidence, he was thankful that she had learned the truth. A barrier
was down, and they seemed to gaze straight into each other's eyes,
across the space where it had been. In return for his snapshots of the
Mirador and its garden, Barbara sent photographs taken by herself of
Gorston Old Hall. One of these showed the lake, with a bow-windowed
corner of the black and white house mirrored in it--the very spot where
Sir John Denin had asked Barbara Fay to be his wife. "The place I love
best," she said. Though she did not say why, it thrilled him to guess.
And in the same letter she sent faintly fragrant specimens from the
"Shakespeare border."

How the sweetness of the dear old-fashioned things, whose very names
distilled a perfume, floated back to Denin from the garden he had given
to his love!

"My husband had the border planted," Barbara explained. "Don't you
think it a delicious idea? Not a single flower or herb mentioned by
Shakespeare has been forgotten, and you can hardly imagine what a noble
company has been brought together. Once we walked in the garden, he and
I, on a moonlight night, when a breeze came up and drove the evening
mists slowly, slowly along the paths and borders like a procession of
spirits in silver cloaks. We played that it had driven away the ghosts
of Shakespeare's people, kings and queens and knights and ladies called
back to earth by the perfume--which, you say, is the voice--of those
well-remembered flowers. That's one of the memories I cherish now, when
I walk past the Shakespeare borders in the