They followed a dimly discernible trail; there were deer tracks in it and signs of other animals whose feet had kept it passable. It was hot and damp and they were forced to bend low beneath the tangle to make progress. Almost suddenly they emerged in a grove of white pines. They stood upright and looked: wind stirred sibilantly in the high tops, and the ground underfoot was a soft carpet; the lake reflected the blue of the sky instead of the brown of its soft bottom.

“Let’s rest a minute,” she said. And then: “I always think a pine grove is like a cathedral. I read somewhere that pines inspired Gothic architecture. Do you suppose it’s true?”

“There was the lotos and the Corinthian column,” Hugo answered.

They sat down. This was a new emotion—a paradoxical emotion for him. He had come to an inharmonious sanctuary and he could expect both tragedy and enchantment. There was Roseanne herself, a hidden beautiful thing in whom were prisoned many beauties. She was growing old in the frosty seclusion of her husband’s company. She was feeding on the toothless food of dreams when her hunger was still strong. That much anyone might see; the reason alone remained invisible. He was acutely conscious of an hour at hand, an imminent moment of vision.

“You’re a strange man,” she said finally.

That was to be the password. “Yes?”

“I’ve watched you every day from the kitchen window.” Her depression had gone now and she was talking with a vague excitement.

“Have you?”

“Do you mind if we pretend for a minute?”

“I’d like it.”

“Then let’s pretend this is a magic carpet and we’ve flown away from the world and there’s nothing to do but play. Play,” she repeated musingly. “I’ll be Roseanne and you’ll be Hugo. You see, I found out your name from the letters. I found out a lot about you. Not facts like born, occupation, father’s first name; just—things.”

He dared a little then. “What sort of things, Roseanne?”

She laughed. “I knew you could do it! That’s one of them. I found out you had a soul. Souls show even in barn-yards. You looked at the peonies one day and you played with the puppies the next. In one way—Hugo—you’re a failure as a farm hand.”

“Failure?”

“A flop. You never make a grammatical mistake.” She saw his surprise and laughed again. “And your manners—and, then, you understood French. See—the carpet is taking us higher and farther away. Isn’t it fun! You’re the hired man and I’m the farmer’s wife and all of a sudden—we’re—”

“A prince and princess?”

“That’s exactly right. I won’t pretend I’m not curious—morbidly curious. But I won’t ask questions, either, because that isn’t what the carpet is for.”