The memories tugging at his heart drew him irresistibly on, for it
was the last time. At a slow walk he went noiselessly through the
deep sand around the clump of rhododendron. The creek was clear as
crystal once more, but no geese cackled and no dog barked. The
door of the spring-house gaped wide, the barn-door sagged on its
hinges, the yard-fence swayed drunkenly, and the cabin was still
as a gravestone. But the garden was alive, and he swung from his
horse at the gate, and with his hands clasped behind his back
walked slowly through it. June's garden! The garden he had planned
and planted for June--that they had tended together and apart and
that, thanks to the old miller's care, was the one thing, save the
sky above, left in spirit unchanged. The periwinkles, pink and
white, were almost gone. The flags were at half-mast and sinking
fast. The annunciation lilies were bending their white foreheads
to the near kiss of death, but the pinks were fragrant, the
poppies were poised on slender stalks like brilliant butterflies
at rest, the hollyhocks shook soundless pink bells to the wind,
roses as scarlet as June's lips bloomed everywhere and the
richness of mid-summer was at hand.
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