The reflected flame of the old bronze lantern, swayed by the night-wind, fell on the great gate and transformed the carved dragons and attendant demons into living, moving things.

The departing guest saw it and remarked with a mock fear, “That dragonette seems alive; hope he and his angels will not follow me.  Some carving that!”

“Are you interested in curious things, Mr. Chalmers?”

“I should say.  Everything from jiujitsu to eels and chopsticks catches me.”

“Have you ever seen a garden in this country which boasts some three or four centuries of birthdays?”

“No; but I should like to gaze on the spectacle.”

Here was my opportunity to get in serious conference with the young man, and as it seemed one of the few sights Mr. Chalmers had missed, I was charmed to make my offer.

“My garden is very famous,” I said, “and just now it is in its full beauty.  I wonder if you would come to-morrow morning and permit me to show it to you?”

“Sure.  Thanks,” was the answer as he swung down the street and into the sleeping town below.

VIII

MR. CHALMERS SEES THE GARDEN AND HEARS THE TRUTH

Early next day I cornered Jane privately and told her of the conversation I had overheard the night before and the visitor I was expecting, adding, “This is Orphan Asylum day.  I can’t go, but take Zura with you.  I don’t want her to see that Chalmers boy again.  He’s too friendly, too highly colored to suit my ideas.”

If my tones were sharper than the occasion demanded, it was because of the combination of a shriveled cash account, and an undesirable male around.  The general disturbance of mind made me say, not quite honestly: 

“He may be all right, but so far I can see not one good quality in Mr. Chalmers’s make-up.”

“Oh! yes, there is, Miss Jenkins,” said Jane, quick to defend.  “He can whistle beautifully.  Last night as he went down the street you should have heard, ‘Oh!  Promise Me!’ It was so pretty I almost cried.”

“Spare your tears, Jane; the prettiest whistle that ever grew never made a real man.  Mr. Chalmers will have to shine in another direction before I am convinced.  Now get Zura and clear out, and don’t you dare to take more than one basket of gingerbread Johnnies to the orphans.”

* * * * *

When Mr. Tom Chalmers walked in at ten o’clock he barely concealed his regret at there being only an elderly hostess to receive him.  The garden where I conducted my visitor, might have added joy to its symbol of peace on this perfect day of early spring.  In each flower, in every leaf a glad spirit seemed to dwell.  The feathered tribe that made its home among the branches madly rejoiced in a melody of song and twitterings.  A white mother pigeon sheltered her young in a gnarled old plum tree, full-blossomed and crimson, while in a lofty pine old man crow scolded all birdkind as he swayed on the topmost branch, a bit of ebony against the matchless sky of blue.