Nina, basket on her arm, snipping away with her garden shears, glanced over her shoulder—­and went on, snipping.  They did not notice how far away her agricultural ardour led her—­did not notice when she stood a moment at the gate looking back at them, or when she passed out, pretty head bent thoughtfully, the shears swinging loose at her girdle.

The prairie rosebuds in Eileen’s basket exhaled their wild, sweet odour; and Selwyn, breathing it, removed his hat like one who faces a cooling breeze, and looked up at the young girl standing before him as though she were the source of all things sweet and freshening in this opening of the youngest year of his life.

She said, smiling absently at his question:  “Certainly one can grow younger; and you have done it in a day, here with me.”

She looked down at his hair; it was bright and inclined to wave a little, but whether the lighter colour at the temples was really silvered or only a paler tint she was not sure.

“You are very like a boy, sometimes,” she said—­“as young as Gerald, I often think—­especially when your hat is off.  You always look so perfectly groomed:  I wonder—­I wonder what you would look like if your hair were rumpled?”

“Try it,” he suggested lazily.

“I?  I don’t think I dare—­” She raised her hand, hesitated, the gay daring in her eyes deepening to audacity.  “Shall I?”

“Why not?”

“T-touch your hair?—­rumple it?—­as I would Gerald’s! . . .  I’m tempted to—­only—­only—­”

“What?”

“I don’t know; I couldn’t.  I—­it was only the temptation of a second—­” She laughed uncertainly.  The suggestion of the intimacy tinted her cheeks with its reaction; she took a short step backward; instinct, blindly stirring, sobered her; and as the smile faded from eye and lip, his face changed, too.  And far, very far away in the silent cells of his heart a distant pulse awoke.

She turned to her roses again, moving at random among the bushes, disciplining with middle-finger and thumb a translucent, amber-tinted shoot here and there.  And when the silence had lasted too long, she broke it without turning toward him: 

“After all, if it were left to me, I had rather be merciful to these soft little buds and sprays, and let the sun and the showers take charge.  A whole cluster of blossoms left free to grow as Fate fashions them!—­Why not?  It is certainly very officious of me to strip a stem of its hopes just for the sake of one pampered blossom. . . .  Non-interference is a safe creed, isn’t it?”

But she continued moving along among the bushes, pinching back here, snipping, trimming, clipping there; and after a while she had wandered quite beyond speaking distance; and, at leisurely intervals she straightened up and turned to look back across the roses at him—­quiet, unsmiling gaze in exchange for his unchanging eyes, which never left her.

She was at the farther edge of the rose garden now where a boy knelt, weeding; and Selwyn saw her speak to him and give him her basket and shears; and saw the boy start away toward the house, leaving her leaning idly above the sun-dial, elbows on the weather-beaten stone, studying the carved figures of the dial.  And every line and contour and curve of her figure—­even the lowered head, now resting between both hands—­summoned him.