ane and I
may not have done everything right."

"Why, certainly. I forgot about the garden; but then you'll have to go
with me if I'm to tell you."

"I don't mind," she said, leading the way.

The June sun was low in the west and the air had become deliciously
cool and fragrant. The old rosebushes were in bloom, and as she passed
she picked a bud and fastened it on her bosom. Wood thrushes, orioles,
and the whole chorus of birds were in full song: limpid rills of melody
from the meadow larks flowed from the fields, and the whistling of the
quails added to the harmony.

Holcroft was in a mood of which he had never been conscious before.
These familiar sounds, which had been unheeded so much of his life, now
affected him strangely, creating an immeasurable sadness and longing.
It seemed as if perceptions which were like new senses were awakening
in his mind. The world was full of wonderful beauty before
unrecognized, and the woman who walked lightly and gracefully at his
side was the crown of it all. He himself was so old, plain, and
unworthy in contrast. His heart ached with a positive, definite pain
that he was not younger, handsomer, and better equipped to win the love
of his wife. As she stood in the garden, wearing the rose, her neat
dress outlining her graceful form, the level rays of the sun lighting
up her face and turning her hair to gold, he felt that he had never
seen or imagined such a woman before. She was in harmony with the June
evening and a part of it, while he, in his working clothes, his rugged,
sun-browned features and hair tinged with gray, was a blot upon the
scene. She who was so lovely, must be conscious of his rude, clownish
appearance. He would have faced any man living and held his own on the
simple basis of his manhood. Anything like scorn, although veiled, on
Alida's part, would have touched his pride and steeled his will, but
the words and manner of this gentle woman who tried to act as if blind
to all that he was in contrast with herself, to show him deference,
kindness, and good will when perhaps she felt toward him somewhat as
she did toward Jane, overwhelmed him with humility and grief. It is
the essence of deep, unselfish love to depreciate itself and exalt its
object. There was a superiority in Alida which Holcroft was learning to
recognize more clearly every day, and he had not a trace of vanity to
sustain him. Now he was in a mood to wrong and undervalue himself
with