“Lad’s love grew in my garden once,” sighed Evelina, after a little.  “It was sweet while it lasted—­oh, but it was sweet!”

She spoke so passionately that the Piper gathered the underlying significance of her words.

“You’re speaking of another garden, I think,” he ventured; “the garden in your heart. “’T is meet that lad’s love should grow there.  Are you sure ’t was not a weed?”

“Yes, it was a weed,” she replied, bitterly.  “The mistake was mine.”

The Piper leaned on his rake thoughtfully. “’T is hard, I think,” he said, “for us to see that the mistakes are all ours.  The Gardener plants rightly, but we are never satisfied.  When sweet herbs are meant for us, we ask for roses, and ’t is not every garden in which a rose will bloom.  If we could keep it clean of weeds, and make it free of all anger and distrust, there’d be heartsease there instead of thorns.”

“Heartsease?” asked Evelina, piteously.  “I thought there was no more!”

“Lady,” said the Piper, “there is heartsease for the asking.  I’m thinking ’t is you who have spoiled your garden.”

“No!” cried Evelina.  “Believe me, it was not I!”

“Who else?” queried the Piper, with a look which made her shrink farther back into the shelter of her chiffon.  “Ah, I was not asking a question that needed an answer; I do not concern myself with names and things.  But ask this of yourself—­is there sin on your soul?”

“No,” she whispered, “unless it be a sin to suffer for twenty-five years.”

“Another’s sin, then?  You’re grieving because another has done wrong?”

“Because another has done wrong to me.”  The Piper came to her and laid his hand very gently upon hers.  There was reassurance in the friendly, human touch. “’T is there,” he said, “that the trouble lies.  ’T is not for you to suffer because you are wronged, but for the one who has wronged you.  He must have been very dear to you, I’m thinking; else you would not hide the beauty of your face.”

“Beauty?” repeated Evelina, scornfully.  “You do not understand.  I was burned—­horribly burned.”

“Yes,” said the Piper, softly, “and what of that?  Beauty is of the soul.”

He went out to the gate and brought in a small, flat box. “’T is for you,” he said.  “I got it for you when I went to the city—­there was none here.”

She opened the box, her fingers trembling, and held up length after length of misty white chiffon.  “I ask no questions,” said the Piper, proudly, “but I know that because you are so beautiful, you hide your face.  Laddie and I, we got more of the white stuff to help you hide it, because you would not let us see how beautiful you are.”

The chiffon fluttered in her hand, though there was no wind.  “Why?” she asked, in a strange voice; “why did you do this?”