She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor, which appeared to have been recently dislodged. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. The longing to talk to someone! But in the end she had gone to her room without giving in to the craving.
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