Geoffrey Strong | Page 8

one of the borders; stooped, hands on knees, and
scrutinised a certain plant; then, glancing upward as he straightened
himself, saw Miss Vesta at the window looking down at him.
"Hurrah!" he cried. "Come down, Miss Vesta, won't you, please? you
are the very person I want. I want to show you something."
"Surely!" said Miss Vesta. "I will be with you in a moment, Doctor
Strong; only let me get a head-covering from my room."
When she had left the window, Geoffrey was almost sorry he had
called her; she made such a pretty picture standing there, framed in the
broad window, the evening light falling softly on her soft face and
silver hair. It was so nice of her to wear white in the evening! Why
didn't old ladies always wear white? when they were pretty, he added,
reflecting that Miss Phoebe in white would be an alarming vision. His
mind still on Miss Vesta, he quoted half aloud:
"A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, And slightly nonchalant, Which
seems to hold a middle place Between one's love and aunt."
"I wish you were my aunt!" he exclaimed, abruptly, when Miss Vesta
appeared a few minutes later, with a screen of delicate white wool over
her head and shoulders.
"Is that what you wished to say to me?" asked Miss Vesta, somewhat
bewildered.
"No! oh, no! I was only thinking what a perfect aunt you would make.
No, I wanted to show you something; a line out of Browning,
illustrated in life; one of my favourite lines. See here, Miss Vesta!"
Miss Vesta looked.
"I see nothing," she began. "Oh, yes, a miller! Is that it, Doctor Strong?
Quite a curious miller. The study of insect life is no doubt--"
"A moth! don't you see?" cried the young doctor. "On the phlox, the
white phlox."
"'And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the
milk-white phlox.'"

"Don't you remember, in the 'Garden Fancies?'"
But Miss Vesta did not remember.
Didn't she know Browning?
She confessed that she did not. She had fancied that he was not quite--
she hardly thought that ladies did read his works to any extent.
"Cowper was my favourite poet in my youth," she said, "and I was very
fond of Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Barbauld. Their poetry is at once
elegant and elevated in tone and spirit. I hope you agree with me,
Doctor Strong?"
"I don't know!" said Geoffrey, "I never read 'em. But Shelley, Miss
Vesta! you love Shelley, I'm sure? He would have loved you so, you
know."
Miss Vesta's quiet face showed a little trouble. "Mr. Shelley's poetry,"
she said, hesitatingly, "is very beautiful. He was--some one I once
knew was devoted to Mr. Shelley's poetry. He--used to read it to me.
But Sister Phoebe thought Mr. Shelley's religious views were--a--not
what one would wish, and she objected to my following the study."
"He wrote about moths, too," said Geoffrey, abstractedly. "The desire
of the moth for the star, you know. Those things make you feel queer
when they come to you out here, with all these lights and dusks and
smells. Now I wonder why!"
Miss Vesta looked at him kindly. "Perhaps there is some tender
association," she said, gently, "such as is natural at your age, my dear
young friend."
"Not an association!" said Geoffrey, stoutly. "Never had one in my life.
It's only in a general way. These things stir one up, somehow; it's a
form of mental intoxication. Do you think a man could get drunk on
sunset and phlox, Miss Vesta?"
"Oh, I trust not, I trust not!" said Miss Vesta, hurriedly, and she made
haste to change the subject. She as well as her sister found the young
doctor's expressions overstrong at times, yet she loved the lad.
"The roses are at their sweetest now," she said, leading the conversation
gently away from the too passionate white phlox, on which the moth
was still waving its wings drowsily. "This black damask is considered
very fine, but I love the old-fashioned June roses best."
"'She loves you, noble roses, I know!'" said Geoffrey, who certainly
was not himself to-night. "This one is exactly like you, Miss Vesta.

Look at it; just the colour of ivory with a little sunset mixed in. Now
you know what you look like."
"Oh, hush, my dear young friend!" said Miss Vesta. "You must not--
really, you know--talk in this way. But--it is curious that you should
have noticed that particular rose; it--it is the kind I used to wear when I
was young."
She looked up at the lamp in the window. Geoffrey's eyes followed
hers. Involuntarily he laid his hand on hers. "Dear Miss Vesta!" he said,
and his strong, hearty voice could