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‘Some evenings a strange odour blows down the air of this garden, like a phantom perfume,’ said Owen. ‘I have never been able to discover from just what flower it comes. It is elusive and haunting and wonderfully sweet. I like to fancy it is the soul of Grandmother Selwyn passing on a little visit to the old spot she loved so well. There should be a lot of friendly ghosts about this little old house.’

‘I have lived under its roof only a month,’ said Leslie, ‘but I love it as I never loved the house over there where I have lived all my life.’

‘This house was builded and consecrated by love,’ said Owen. ‘Such houses must exert an influence over those who live in them. And this garden – it is over sixty years old and the history of a thousand hopes and joys is written in its blossoms. Some of those flowers were actually set out by the schoolmaster’s bride, and she has been dead for thirty years. Yet they bloom on every summer. Look at those red roses, Leslie – how they queen it over everything else!’

‘I love the red roses,’ said Leslie. ‘Anne likes the pink ones best, and Gilbert likes the white. But I want the crimson ones. They satisfy some craving in me as no other flower does.’

‘These roses are very late – they bloom after all the others have gone – and they hold all the warmth and soul of the summer come to fruition,’ said Owen, plucking some of the glowing, half-opened buds. ‘The rose is the flower of love – the world has acclaimed it so for centuries. The pink roses are love hopeful and expectant – the white roses are love dead or forsaken – but the red roses – ah, Leslie, what are the red roses?’

‘Love triumphant,’ said Leslie in a low voice.

‘Yes – love triumphant and perfect. Leslie, you know – you understand. I have loved you from the first. And I know you love me – I don’t need to ask you. But I want to hear you say it – my darling – my darling!’

Leslie said something in a very low and tremulous voice. Their hands and lips met; it was life’s supreme moment for them, and as they stood there in the old garden, with its many years of love and delight and sorrow and glory, he crowned her shining hair with the red, red rose of a love triumphant.

Anne and Gilbert returned presently, accompanied by Captain Jim. Anne lighted a few sticks of driftwood in the fireplace, for love of the pixy flames, and they sat around it for an hour of good fellowship.

‘When I sit looking at a driftwood fire it’s easy to believe I’m young again,’ said Captain Jim.

‘Can you read futures in the fire, Captain Jim?’ asked Owen.

Captain Jim looked at them all affectionately, and then back again at Leslie’s vivid face and glowing eyes.

‘I don’t need the fire to read your future,’ he said. ‘I see happiness for all of you – all of you – for Leslie and Mr Ford – and the Doctor here and Mistress Blythe – and Little Jem – and children that ain’t born yet but will be. Happiness for you all – though, mind you, I reckon you’ll have your troubles and worries and sorrows, too. They’re bound to come – and no house, whether it’s a palace or a little house of dreams, can bar ’em out. But they won’t get the better of you if you face ’em together with love and trust. You can weather any storm with them two for compass and pilot.’

The old man rose suddenly and placed one hand on Leslie’s head and one on Anne’s.

‘Two good, sweet women,’ he said. ‘True and faithful and to be depended on. Your husbands will have honour in the gates because of you – your children will rise up and call you blessed in the years to come.’

There was a strange solemnity about the little scene. Anne and Leslie bowed as those receiving a benediction. Gilbert suddenly brushed his hand over his eyes; Owen Ford was rapt as one who can see visions. All were silent for a space. The little house of dreams added another poignant and unforgettable moment to its store of memories.

‘I must be going now,’ said Captain Jim slowly at last. He took up his hat and looked