“Do you know,”—­said the artist, as they sat on the porch that evening, with their after-dinner pipes,—­“I believe this old place is haunted.”

“If it isn’t, it ought to be,” answered the other, contentedly—­playing with Czar’s silky ears.  “A good ghost would fit in nicely here, wouldn’t it—­or he, or she.  Its spookship would travel far to find a more delightful place for spooking in, and—­providing, of course, she were a perfectly respectable hant—­what a charming addition to our family he would make.  When it was weary of moping and mowing and sobbing and wailing and gibbering, she could curl up at the foot of your bed and sleep; as Czar, here, curls up and sleeps at the foot of mine.  A good ghost, you know—­if he becomes really attached to you—­is as constant and faithful and affectionate and companionable as a good dog.”

“B-r-r-r,” said the artist.  And Czar turned to look at him, questioningly.

“All the same”—­the painter continued—­“when I was out there in the studio, I could feel some one watching me—­you know the feeling.”

Conrad Lagrange returned mockingly, “I trust your over-sensitive, artistic temperament is not to be so influenced by our ghostly visitor that you will be unfitted for your work.”

The other laughed.  Then he said seriously, “Joking aside, Lagrange, I feel a presentiment—­I can’t put it into words—­but—­I feel that I am going to begin the real work of my life right here.  I”—­he hesitated—­“it seems to me that I can sense some influence that I can’t define—­it’s the mystery of the rose garden, perhaps,” he finished with another short laugh.

The man, who, in the eyes of the world, had won so large a measure of the success that his friend desired; and whose life was so embittered by the things for which he was envied by many; made no reply other than his slow, twisted smile.

Silently, they watched the purple shadows of the mountains deepen; and saw the outlines of the tawny foothills grow vague and dim, until they were lost in the dusky monotone of the evening.  The last faint tint of sunset color went from the sky back of the San Gabriels; while, close to the mountain peaks and ridges, the stars came out.  The rows and the contour of the orange groves could no longer be distinguished the forms of the nearby trees were lost—­the rich, lustrous green of their foliage brushed out with the dull black of the night; while the twinkling lights of the distant towns and hamlets, in the valley below, shone as sparkling jewels on the inky, velvet robe that, fold on fold, lay over the landscape.

When the two had smoked in silence, for some time, the artist said slowly, “You knew my mother very well, did you not, Mr. Lagrange?”

“We were children together, Aaron.”  As he spoke, the man’s deep voice was gentle, as always, when the young man’s mother was mentioned.

Again, for a little, neither spoke.  As they sat looking away to the mountains, each seemed occupied with his own thoughts.  Yet each felt that the other, to a degree, understood what he, himself, was thinking.