er face pressed between the
bars (only the privileged possessing a key are admitted to the gardens
within), Fudge scampering up and down, wild to get at the two gray
squirrels, which some vandal has since stolen, and then, remembering his
promise to Ganger, he called her to him and continued his walk.

But her morning outing was not over. He must take her to the
marble-cutter's yard, filled with all sorts of statues, urns, benches,
and columns, and show her again the ruts and grooves cut in the big
stone well-head, and tell her once more the story of how it had stood in
an old palace in Venice, where the streets were all water and everybody
went visiting in boats. And then she must stop at the florist's to see
whether he had any new ferns in his window, and have Felix again explain
the difference between the big and little ferns and why the palms had
such long leaves.

She was ready now for her visit to the two old painters, but this time
Felix lingered. He had caught sight of a garden wall in the rear of an
old house, and with his hand in hers had crossed the street to study
it the closer. The wall was surmounted by a solid, wrought-iron railing
into which some fifty years or more ago a gardener had twisted the
tendrils of a wistaria. The iron had cut deep, and so inseparable
was the embrace that human skill could not pull them apart without
destroying them both.

As he reached the sidewalk and got a clearer view of the vine, tracing
the weave of its interlaced branches and tendrils, Masie noticed that he
stopped suddenly and for a moment looked away, lost in deep thought. She
caught, too, the shadow that sometimes settled on his face, one she had
seen before and wondered over. But although her hand was still in his,
she kept silent until he spoke.

"Look, dear Masie," he said at last, drawing her to him, "see what
happens to those who are forced into traps! It was the big knot that
held it back! And yet it grew on!"

Masie looked up into his thoughtful face. "Do you think the iron hurts
it, Uncle Felix?" she asked with a sigh.

"I shouldn't wonder; it would me," he faltered.

"But it wasn't the vine's fault, was it?"

"Perhaps not. Maybe when it was planted nobody looked after it, nor
cared what might happen when it grew up. Poor wistaria! Come along,
darling!"

At last they turned into 10th Street, Fudge scurrying ahead to the very
door of the grim building, where a final dash brought him to Ganger's,
h