Shirley, startled, turned swiftly. Seated across the little
amphitheatre in a lumberjack's easy-chair fashioned from an old
barrel, John Cardigan sat, his sightless gaze bent upon her. "Who is
it?" he repeated.

"Shirley Sumner," she answered. "You do not know me, Mr. Cardigan."

"No," replied he, "I do not. That is a name I have heard, however.
You are Seth Pennington's niece. Is someone with you?"

"I am quite alone, Mr. Cardigan."

"And why did you come here alone?" he queried.

"I--I wanted to think."

"You mean you wanted to think clearly, my dear. Ah, yes, this is the
place for thoughts." He was silent a moment. Then: "You were thinking
aloud, Miss Shirley Sumner. I heard you. You said: 'Poor dear, God
didn't spare you for much happiness, did He?" And I think you
rearranged my roses. Didn't I have them on her grave?"

"Yes, Mr. Cardigan. I was merely making room for some wild flowers I
had gathered."

"Indeed. Then you knew--about her being here."

"Yes, sir. Some ten years ago, when I was a very little girl, I met
your son Bryce. He gave me a ride on his Indian pony, and we came