“Gwen has helped me immeasurably,” said Mrs. Holt, looking after the tall figure of her daughter-in-law, “but she has a curious, reserved character.  You have to know her, my dear.  She is not at all like Susan, for instance.”

Honora awoke the next morning to a melody, and lay for some minutes in a delicious semi-consciousness, wondering where she was.  Presently she discovered that the notes were those of a bird on a tree immediately outside of her window—­a tree of wonderful perfection, the lower branches of which swept the ground.  Other symmetrical trees, of many varieties, dotted a velvet lawn, which formed a great natural terrace above the forested valley of Silver Brook.  On the grass, dew-drenched cobwebs gleamed in the early sun, and the breeze that stirred the curtains was charged with the damp, fresh odours of the morning.  Voices caught her ear, and two figures appeared in the distance.  One she recognized as Mr. Holt, and the other was evidently a gardener.  The gilt clock on the mantel pointed to a quarter of seven.

It is far too late in this history to pretend that Honora was, by preference, an early riser, and therefore it must have been the excitement caused by her surroundings that made her bathe and dress with alacrity that morning.  A housemaid was dusting the stairs as she descended into the empty hall.  She crossed the lawn, took a path through the trees that bordered it, and came suddenly upon an old-fashioned garden in all the freshness of its early morning colour.  In one of the winding paths she stopped with a little exclamation.  Mr. Holt rose from his knees in front of her, where he had been digging industriously with a trowel.  His greeting, when contrasted with his comparative taciturnity at dinner the night before, was almost effusive—­and a little pathetic.

“My dear young lady,” he exclaimed, “up so early?” He held up forbiddingly a mould-covered palm.  “I can’t shake hands with you.”

Honora laughed.

“I couldn’t resist the temptation to see your garden,” she said.

A gentle light gleamed in his blue eyes, and he paused before a trellis of June roses.  With his gardening knife he cut three of them, and held them gallantly against her white gown.  Her sensitive colour responded as she thanked him, and she pinned them deftly at her waist.

“You like gardens?” he said.

“I was brought up with them,” she answered; “I mean,” she corrected herself swiftly, “in a very modest way.  My uncle is passionately fond of flowers, and he makes our little yard bloom with them all summer.  But of course,” Honora added, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“It has been a life work,” answered Mr. Holt, proudly, “and yet I feel as though I had not yet begun.  Come, I will show you the peonies—­they are at their best—­before I go in and make myself respectable for breakfast.”

Ten minutes later, as they approached the house in amicable and even lively conversation, they beheld Susan and Mrs. Robert standing on the steps under the porte-cochere, watching them.