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THIS STORY IS TOLD BY

POMONA AND JONAS

AND IS CALLED

THE FOREIGN PRINCE AND THE HERMIT’S DAUGHTER

The Frenchman went away; and after him there was a succession of visitors to the house who were not interested in gardens and were therefore not introduced within the sacred precincts of the summer-house on the upper terrace. The young people took a fancy to a pretty rustic arbor in a secluded spot; but whether it was because they especially admired that part of the garden did not transpire.

But the guests left, one after another; and finally there came to visit the family Euphemia and her Husband. They were old and intimate friends of the family, and the very morning after their arrival they all repaired to the summer-house which overlooked the garden. There was some conversation about the garden,–its beautiful things, and its useful products, and its antiquity,–for Euphemia loved the old garden and its traditions.

The two gentlemen, provided with comfortable chairs, smoked their cigars in peacefulness and content, and the Daughter of the House seemed absorbed in some fancy work. But after some time the Master of the House, turning suddenly to Euphemia’s Husband, asked: “What has become of Jonas and Pomona?”

“Here they are to answer for themselves!” cried the Daughter of the House, springing up, as John Gayther ushered into the garden the Next Neighbor, followed by Pomona and Jonas. The Next Neighbor was also on intimate terms with Euphemia and her Husband, and a devoted and rapturous admirer of Pomona. The couple had descended upon her the night before in a most unexpected fashion, but she gave them a hearty welcome, and rejoiced in them, even after she discovered that she owed the visit to a desire on the part of her guests to see Euphemia’s Husband. They knew where he was visiting, but had thought it wiser to go to the Next Neighbor to pay their little visit. And so the explanation of this apparently strange meeting of so many old friends was simple enough.

Chairs and benches were found, and John Gayther brought his stool unasked and joined the party. He had no idea of missing that conversation.

It was soon evident that, while Jonas was as tranquil as usual, Pomona had something on her mind–that she had come with a purpose; and as soon as the inquiries and explanations were over, she addressed the Husband of Euphemia with great earnestness:

“Jone and me came to see you, sir, about something particular; and as we are all friends here, I may as well say it right out.”

“The more you say the better we shall be pleased!” the Master of the House exclaimed.

Pomona nodded to him, but turned again to the Husband of Euphemia.

“We’ve been told, sir, that some editors have been asking you to get us to enter fiction again; and what we want to say is that we don’t want to enter it no more. What we did when we was in it was all very well, but that’s past and gone, although I’ve said to Jone a good many more times than once that if I had to do this or that thing now, that’s set down in the book, I’d do it different. But then he always answers that if I’d done that I’d have spoiled the story, and so there was no more to say on that subject. What we’ve done we gladly did, and we’re more than glad we did it for you, sir. But as for doing it again, we can’t do it, for it ain’t in us. Even if we tried to do the best we could for you, all you’d get would be something like skim-milk–good enough for cottage cheese and bonnyclabber, but nothing like good fresh milk with the cream on it.”

“I think you are perfectly right,” said Euphemia. “If you don’t want to go into fiction again you ought not to be made to do it.”