"It is strange," said Fleda presently, "how well one may know and how well one may forget.--But I think the body has a great deal to do with it sometimes--these states of feeling, I mean."
"No doubt it has; and in these cases the cure is a more complicated matter. I should think the roses would be useful there?"
Fleda's mind was crossed by an indistinct vision of peas, asparagus, and sweet corn; she said nothing.
"An indirect remedy is sometimes the very best that can be employed. However it is always true that the more our eyes are fixed upon the source of light the less we notice the shadows that things we are passing fling across our way."
Fleda did not know how to talk for a little while; she was too happy. Whatever kept Mr. Carleton from talking, he was silent also. Perhaps it was the understanding of her mood.
"Mr. Carleton," said Fleda after a little time, "did you ever carry out that plan of a rose-garden that you were talking of a long while ago?"
"You remember it?" said he with a pleased look.--"Yes--that was one of the first things I set about after I went home--but I did not follow the regular fashion of arrangement that one of your friends is so fond of."
"I should not like that for anything," said Fleda,--"and least of all for roses."
"Do you remember the little shrubbery path that opened just in front of the library windows?--leading at the distance of half a mile to a long narrow winding glen?"
"Perfectly well!" said Fleda,--"through the wood of evergreens--I remember the glen very well."