"A magician most profound in his art."
It was Sunday afternoon. The griffins on the doorstep stared straight
before them with an expression of utter indifference; the feathery foliage
of the white birch swayed gently back and forth; the peonies lifted their
crimson heads airily; the snowball bush bent under the weight of its white
blooms till it swept the grass; the fountain splashed softly.
"'By cool Siloam's shady rill
How fair the lily grows,'"
Rosalind chanted dreamily.
Grandmamma had given her the hymn book, telling her to choose a hymn and
commit it to memory, and as she turned the pages this had caught her eye
and pleased her fancy.
"It sounds like the Forest of Arden," she said, leaning back on the garden
bench and shutting her eyes.
"'How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's lovely rose.'"
She swung her foot in time to the rhythm. She was not sure whether a rill
was a fountain or a stream, so she decided, as there was no dictionary
convenient, to think of it as like the creek where it crossed the road at
the foot of Red Hill.