go to make a man are
not to our taste.

Martin: My story I hope was so.

Joscelyn: To some extent. And this pool in the Red Copse, is it hard to
find?

Martin: Neither harder nor easier than all fairies' secrets. And at
certain times in summer, when the wood is altogether lovely with
centaury and purple loosestrife, you can hardly miss the pool for the
fairies that flock there.

Joyce: What dresses do they wear?

Martin: The most beautiful in the world. The dresses of White Admirals
and Red, and Silver-Washed Fritillaries and Pearl-Bordered
Fritillaries, and Large Whites and Small Whites and Marbled Whites and
Green-Veined Whites, and Ringlets, and Azure Blues, and Painted Ladies,
and Meadow Browns. And they go there for a Feast Day in honor of some
Saint of the Fairies' Church. Which Hobb and Margaret also attended
once yearly on each first of August, bringing a golden rose to lay upon
the altars of the pool. And the year in which they brought it no more,
two Sulphurs, with dresses like sunlight on a charlock-field, came with
the rest to the moon-daisies' Feast; because not once in all their
years of marriage had the perfect rose been lacking.

Jessica: It relieves me to hear that. For I had dreaded lest their rose
was blighted for ever.

Jane: And I too, Jessica. Especially when she died at his feet.

Joan: And yet, Jane, she did not really die, and somehow I was sure she
would live.

Joyce: Yes, I was confident that Hobb would be as happy as he deserved
to be.

Jennifer: I do not know why, but even at the worst I could not imagine
a love-story ending in tears.

Martin: Neither could I. Since love's spear is for woe and his shield
for joy. Why, I know of but one thing that could have lost him that
battle.

Three of the Milkmaids: What thing?

Martin: Had the elements that go to make a man not been to Margaret's
taste.

Conversation ceased in the Apple-Orchard.

Joscelyn: Her taste would have been the more commendable, singer. And
your tale might have been the better worth listening to. But since
tales have nothing in common with truth, it's a matter of indifference
to me whether Hobb's rose suffered perpetual blight or not.

Jane: And to me.

Martin: Then let the tale wilt, since indifference is a blight no story
can suffer and live. And see! overhead the moon hangs undecided under a
cloud, one half of her lovely body unveiled, the other half draped in a
ghostly garment lit from within by