“Hush, Bruno!” I interrupted, in a warning whisper.  “She’s coming!”

Bruno checked his song only just in time for Sylvie not to hear him; and then, catching sight of her as she slowly made her way through the long grass, he suddenly rushed out headlong at her like a little bull, shouting, “Look the other way!  Look the other way!”

“Which way?” Sylvie asked, in rather a frightened tone, as she looked round in all directions to see where the danger could be.

“That way!” said Bruno, carefully turning her round with her face to the wood.  “Now, walk backward—­walk gently—­don’t be frightened; you sha’n’t t’ip!”

But Sylvie did “t’ip,” notwithstanding; in fact he led her, in his hurry, across so many little sticks and stones, that it was really a wonder the poor child could keep on her feet at all.  But he was far too much excited to think of what he was doing.

I silently pointed out to Bruno the best place to lead her to, so as to get a view of the whole garden at once; it was a little rising ground, about the height of a potato; and, when they had mounted it, I drew back into the shade that Sylvie mightn’t see me.

I heard Bruno cry out triumphantly, “Now you may look!” and then followed a great clapping of hands, but it was all done by Bruno himself.  Sylvie was quite silent; she only stood and gazed with her hands clasped tightly together, and I was half afraid she didn’t like it after all.

Bruno, too, was watching her anxiously, and when she jumped down from the mound, and began wandering up and down the little walks, he cautiously followed her about, evidently anxious that she should form her own opinion of it all, without any hint from him.  And when at last she drew a long breath, and gave her verdict,—­in a hurried whisper, and without the slightest regard to grammar,—­“It’s the loveliest thing as I never saw in all my life before!” the little fellow looked as well pleased as if it had been given by all the judges and juries in England put together.

“And did you really do it all by yourself, Bruno?” said Sylvie.  “And all for me?”

“I was helped a bit,” Bruno began, with a merry little laugh at her surprise.  “We’ve been at it all the afternoon; I thought you ’d like—­” and here the poor little fellow’s lip began to quiver, and all in a moment he burst out crying, and, running up to Sylvie, he flung his arms passionately round her neck, and hid his face on her shoulder.

There was a little quiver in Sylvie’s voice too, as she whispered, “Why, what’s the matter, darling?” and tried to lift up his head and kiss him.

But Bruno only clung to her, sobbing, and wouldn’t be comforted till he had confessed all.

“I tried—­to spoil your garden—­first—­but—­I ’ll never—­never——­” and then came another burst of tears which drowned the rest of the sentence.  At last he got out the words, “I liked—­putting in the flowers—­for you, Sylvie—­and I never was so happy before,” and the rosy little face came up at last to be kissed, all wet with tears as it was.