The Argosy — page 345: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

324 A PLATONIC ATTACHMENT, A GARDEN —a garden of flowers. One of the quaintest, sweetest, most old-fashioned ever seen in these degenerate latter days: redolent of moss-roses, lavender, mignonette and gilliflowers; gay to gorgeousness with stately hollyhocks, sunflowers, and huge tree peonies. It was by mere accident I chanced upon this garden: one of those accidents that come about so simply, yet lead to so much. I was attracted by the scent of a sweetbriar hedge, protected only by a low paling from the road ; then looking across the fence, I espied this lovely wilderness of flowers. I forgot I was wearied with long walking, forgot the sun was setting, and that I had lost my way ; forgot everything, except that I must find an entrance to this earthly paradise. A few paces on I did discover it. A rustic gate opened on to a gravel path leading to a low-built house of dull red brick—that mellowed tint so dear to the artistic mind. Straw and matting littered the gravel walk ; the flower beds there were trampled with the print of many feet ; every window of the house was open wide. A waggon laden with furniture passed out as I entered. A woman standing at the door seemed to be watching the departure of the waggon. She did not notice my approach, and, on observing her more closely, I saw that she was gazing straight out into the sunset, lost in thought. She was a woman numbering sixty years, but fresh and comely, save that now her face was clouded with sadness. “Ah me! To think that it is ended now—all ended !” Something in her look, and the tone in which she said these words impelled me to remain—to speak to her. Laying a hand upon her arm: “You are sad. Can I do anything for you?” I asked, timidly. She neither started nor showed surprise at being accosted by a stranger. She turned her eyes on me, and I saw they were red with weeping. “Aye! I’m sad enough, But there’s nothing you can do, my honey, thank you, kindly.” ‘My honey!” It was a north-country expression which I had lately heard for the first time. “I’m very weary with walking. May I sit down in the porch and rest?” I asked. “ Aye, rest and welcome. Foot-weary? It’s a weary world for some people. A world in which everything goes wrong - j She took my sketching materials from my hand, laying them on a rustic table near, then she turned, went leisurely down the gravel path and closed the gate, returning to the porch. I made room for her Eomichooks.co