She took her goddess from Mr. Carlyon's arms, and walking with the
dignity of a priestess of the Temple, she preceded her master along the
tangled path.
A riot of things growing impeded each step. Roses which had degenerated
into little better than wild ones, showed late red and pink blooms,
honeysuckle and columbines flowered, and foxgloves raised their graceful
heads.
At the end there was a broken bower at the corner of the terrace, with a
superb view over the park and far beyond to the high blue hills.
This place was cleared, for Halcyone had done the necessary work
herself. It was one of her outlooks upon the world and she had even
carefully mended the cracked bench with a bit of board and a nail or
two. The table, which was of stone, still stood firmly and was quaint
and rather Greek in shape--for had not a later Timothy La Sarthe brought
it from Paris in the Empire days?
Mr. Carlyon sat down and prepared himself for the solemn moment when the
Goddess should be unveiled.
And when the reverent little priestess had removed the folds from the
face as it lay upon the table, he started and held his breath, for he
instantly realized that indeed this was the work of some glorious old
Greek sculptor; none other could have created that perfect head.
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