Her hands fell in her lap, and she gazed with unseeing eyes at the hills.  After all, Patricia, mourning her lover, had not known the bitterest sorrow.

The thought of her work, which must be done, aroused her.  “What a weak creature I am, thinking my lot harder than that of any one else,” she exclaimed, and taking up her needle she determinedly fixed her mind on the present.  There was the suit Tom needed, and the grocery bill that should be paid the first of the month.  She must work hard and not waste time in regrets.  The summer that meant leisure and pleasure for many, meant only added cares for her.

A surprising announcement broke in upon these dreary thoughts:  “This is the Forest of Arden!”

The voice was a sweet, girlish one, and came from somewhere behind the arbor, but the vines grew so thick she could not get a glimpse of the speaker.  Celia went on with her work, feeling at first a little annoyed that her quiet should be disturbed, yet the suggestion of sylvan joy in the words grew upon her.  The Forest of Arden—­where they fleeted the time carelessly—­what a rest for tired spirits it seemed to offer!

“If we will, we may travel always in the Forest, where the birds sing and the sunlight sifts through the trees—­” the same voice repeated.  A stir of wind set the leaves rustling, and Celia lost the rest.

“That means it will all come right in the end.”

“The people who hated each other all came to be friends in the Forest.”

Fragments like these floated in to Celia.  Then she heard Maurice Roberta’s voice saying, “Let’s go farther down the slope.”  She went to the door of the arbor and looked out.  As she had suspected, Maurice’s companion was the girl she had encountered in the cemetery, Rosalind carried her hat in her hand, and as they crossed an open space the sunshine turned her hair to gold.

Celia went back to her work.  “It will all come right in the end,”—­this was what Morgan had told her yesterday; it was strange that this child should cross her path again, and with the same message.

“Even people who hated each other came to be friends in the Forest.”  To travel always in the Forest!  How restful the idea!  How would it seem not to hate anybody?  To be really at peace?  But it was not possible for her.

Her thoughts would persist in dwelling upon Rosalind Whittredge.  Again she recalled with shame the impulse that made her scorn the rose.  She was glad she had picked it up and carried it home.  Why should she have any feeling against Patterson Whittredge’s daughter?  Had not her father taken Patterson’s side in the family trouble over his marriage?  Ah, but that was long ago, and it was hard to forget that Rosalind, with her sweet, serious eyes, was after all Mrs. Whittredge’s granddaughter, Genevieve’s niece.

“I wish she wasn’t, and that I could see her and speak to her, and ask her what she means by the Forest,” she thought.  “She is gentle and sweet; she is not like the Whittredges.  Why should I dislike her because she belongs to them?  Oh, it is dreadful to hate people!” Celia hid her face in her hands, “but I do—­I do,” she added.