Like the sketch of Franz, its
charm lay entirely in suggestion, not in detail, but was none the less
real for that.
There was one thing which, to King's observant eyes, stood out plainly
from the little wash drawing. This garden was a garden of the rich, not
of the poor. Just how he knew it so well he could hardly have told,
after all, for there was no hint of house, or wall, or even
summer-house, sundial, terrace, or other significant sign. Yet it was
there, and he doubted if Anne Linton knew it was there, or meant to have
it so. Perhaps it was that lilac hedge which seemed to show so plainly
the hand of a gardener in the planting and tending. The question
was--was it her own garden in which she had played, or the garden of her
father's employer? Had her father been that gardener, perchance? King
instantly rejected this possibility.
CHAPTER VII
WHITE LILACS
Burns, coming in to see King one day when the exchange of letters had
been going on for nearly a fortnight, announced that he might soon be
moved to his own home.
King stared at him. "I'm not absolutely certain that I want to go till I
can get about on my own feet," he said slowly.
Burns nodded. "I know, but that will be some time yet, and your
mother--well, I've put her off as long as I could, but without lying to
her I can't say it would hurt you now to be taken home. And lying's not
my long suit."
"Of course not. And I suppose I ought to go; it would be a comfort to my
mother.
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