The Eyes of the World

he had no thought that the trivial incident was to mark the beginning of a new era in his l

, so I would always remember that he is my superior."She laughed--low, full-throated and clear--as a girl who has not sadly learned that she is a woman, laughs. Then she fell to caressing the dog and calling him by name; while Czar--in his efforts to express his delight and satisfaction--was as nearly undignified as it was possible for him to be.As he watched them, the rugged, world-worn features of the famous novelist were lighted with an expression that transformed them."And I suppose," she said,--still responding to the novelist's playful mood,--"that Czar told you I was trespassing in your garden. Of course it was his duty to tell. I hope he told you, also, that I do not steal your roses."The man shook his head, and his sharp, green-gray eyes were twinkling merrily, now--as a boy in the spirit of some amusing venture. "Oh, no! Czar said nothing at all about trespassers. He did tell me, though, about a wonderful creature that comes every day to visit the garden. A nymph, he thought it was--a beautiful Oread from away up there among the silver peaks and purple canyons--or, perhaps, a lovely Dryad from among the oaks and pines. I felt quite sure, though, that the nymph must be an Oread; because he said that she comes to gather colors from the roses, and that every morning and every evening she uses these colors to tint the highest peaks and crests of her mountains--making them so beautiful that mortals would always begin and end each day by looking up at them. Of course, the moment I saw, you I knew who you were."Unaffectedly pleased as a child at his quaint fancy, she answered merrily, "And so you hid among the roses to trap me, I suppose.""Indeed, I did not," he retorted indignantly. "I was forced to fly from a wicked Flibbertigibbet who seeks to torment me. I barely escaped with my life, and came into the garden to hide and recover from my fright. Then I heard the most wonderful music and guessed that you must be somewhere around. Then Czar, who had come with me to hide from the Flibbertigibbet in the house, left me. I looked to see where he had gone, and so I saw, sure enough, that it was you. All my life, you know, I have wanted to catch a real nymph; but never could. So when you came into the arbor, I couldn't resist trying again. And, now, here we are--with Czar to say it is all right."At his fanciful words, she laughed again, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Then, with grave sweetness, she said, "Won't you sit down, please, and let me explain seriously?""I suppose you must pretend to be like the rest of us," he returned with an air of resignation, "but all the same, Czar and I know you are not."When they were seated, she said simply, "My name is Sibyl Andres. This place used to be my home. My mother planted this garden with her own hands. Many of these roses were brought from our home in the mountains, where I was born, and where I lived with father and mother until five years ago. I feel, still, as though the old place in the hills were my real home, and every summer, when nearly every one goes away from Fairlands and there is nothing for me to do, Myra Willard and I go up there, for as long as we can. You see, I teach music and play in the churches. Miss Willard taught me. She and mother are the only teachers I have ever had. After father's death, mother and Myra and I lived here for two years; then mother died, and Myra and I moved to that little house over there, because we could not afford to keep this place. But the man who bought it gave me permission to care for the garden; so I come almost every day--through that little gate in the corner of the hedge, there--to tend the roses. Since you men moved in, though, I come, mostly, in the morning--early--before you are up. I only slip in, sometimes, for a few minutes, in the afternoon--when I think it will be safe. You see, being strangers, I--I feared you would think me bold--if I--if I asked to come. So many people really wouldn't understand, you know."Conrad Lagrange's deep voice was very gentle as he said, "Mr. King and I have known, all the time, that we had no real claim upon this garden, Miss Andres." Then, with his whimsical smile, he added, "You see, we felt, from the very first, that it was haunted by a lovely spirit that would vanish utterly if we intruded. That is why we have been so careful. We did not want to frighten you away. And besides, you know, Czar told us that it was all right!"The blue eyes shone through a bright mist as she answered the man's kindly words. "You _are_ good, Mr. Lagrange. And all the time it was really _you_ of whom I was so afraid.""Why me, more than my friend?" he asked, regarding her thoughtfully.She colored a little under his searching gaze, but answered with that childlike frankness that was so much a part of her winsome charm, "Why, because your friend is an _artist_--I thought _he_ would be sure to understand. I knew, of course, that you were the famous author; everybody talks about your living here." She seemed to think that her words explained."You mean that you were afraid of me because I am famous?" he asked doubtfully."Oh no," she answered, "not because you are famous. I mean--I was not afraid of your _fame_," she smiled."And now," said the novelist decisively, "you must tell me at once--do you read my books?" He waited, as though much depended upon her answer.The blue eyes were gazing at him with that wide, unafraid look as she answered sadly, "No, sir. I have tried, but I can't. They spoil my music. They hurt me, somehow, all over."Conrad Lagrange received her words with mingled emotions--with pleased delight at her ingenuous frankness; with bitter shame, sorrow, and humiliation and, at the last, with genuine gladness and relief. "I knew it"--he said triumphantly--"I knew it. It was because of my books that you were so afraid of me?" He asked eagerly, as one would ask to have a deep conviction verified."You see," she said,--smiling at the manner of his words,--"I did not know that an author _could_ be so different from the things he writes about." Then, with a puzzled air--"But why do you write the horrid things that spoil my music and make me afraid? Why don't you write as you talk--about--about the mountains? Why don't you make books like--like"--she seemed to be searching for a word, and smiled with pleasure when she found it--"like yourself?""Listen"--said the novelist impressively, taking refuge in his fanciful humor--"listen--I'll tell you a secret that must always be for just you and me--you like secrets don't you?"--anxiously.She laughed with pleasure--responding instantly to his mood. "Of course I like secrets."He nodded approval. "I was sure you did. Now listen--I am not really Conrad Lagrange, the man who wrote those books that hurt you so--not when I am here in your rose garden, or when I am listening to your music, or when I am away up there in your mountains, you know. It is only when I am in the unclean world that reads and likes my books that I am the man who wrote them."Her eyes shone with quick understanding. "Of course," she agreed, "you _couldn't_ be _that_ kind of a man, and love the music, and like to be here among the roses or up in the mountains, could you?""No, and I'll tell you something else that goes with our secret. Your name is not really Sibyl Andres, you know--any more than you really live over there in that little house. Your real home is in the mountains--just as you said--you _really_ live among the glowing peaks, under the dark pines, on the ridges, and in the purple shadows of the canyons. You only come down he