IN THE GARDEN

“If it was only true that castles could be enchanted, then I’d surely think Sherwood Hall was one,” said the little girl with soft, dreamy eyes.

“You’d think Sherwood Hall was what?” questioned the other little girl, who had paused to rest her foot upon a stone, while she tied the ribbons of her shoe.

“An enchanted castle!”

“Why Vivian Osborne!  You’re always thinking of fairy tales,” was the quick reply, and she laughed as if the idea were impossible.

“Now Leslie Grafton,” Vivian replied, “you just come here, and look where Sherwood Hall shows between the trees.  See the sun on the red roofs, and on those lovely windows!  Can’t you almost see the captive princess looking from her casement?”

“Well there she is!” cried Leslie laughing, “and we don’t have to almost see her.  We can truly see her.”

“Oh, wasn’t it fine that just as we were talking, Princess Polly opened her window, and looked out,” said Vivian, as together they ran up the avenue, and in at the gateway of Sherwood Hall.

“It was Lena Lindsey who first thought of calling her ‘Princess Polly,’ and she’s always so sweet that the name seems to belong to her,” said Leslie.

Polly had seen them, and when they reached the house, she was waiting to greet them.

“The postman is coming!” they cried, “the postman is coming, and we ran ahead to tell you!”

“Oh, perhaps there’s a letter from Rose!” said Polly.

“That’s what we thought,” said Leslie, “and if there is, do tell us some of it.  We love Rose Atherton as much as you do.”

Polly Sherwood shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked along the broad avenue.

“Oh, now I see him!” she cried, “and he’s taking out a handful of letters as he comes along.”

The postman laughed at Polly’s eagerness.

“Three for you, Miss Polly,” he said, as he placed them in her hands.

Polly looked at the envelopes.  “That one is from my cousin,” she said.  “She always uses pink paper, and that one is from a little girl I used to play with before we came to live at Sherwood Hall.  I know, because her paper is always pale green, but this one—­” she held up the envelope with a little cry of delight, “This one is from Rose!”

With Leslie and Vivian looking over her shoulder, Polly opened the letter.

“Read it with me,” she said.

“Oh, read it aloud while we listen,” said Leslie.

Rose had been a dear little playmate when she had lived with her Aunt Judith in a little cottage, near Sherwood Hall.  Now that she had gone to live with her Great-Aunt Rose, for whom she had been named, and some miles distant, her little friends remembered her, and wished that she were with them.

Now, as Polly read the letter, it seemed as if little Rose Atherton were talking to them.