It was a warm morning. She sat on one of the oak benches he had had built for the place, a book in her lap, quietly reading.

He had made his approach from above and now stood a moment beholding the tranquil scene before making himself known to her.

She had her mother’s deep blue eyes, that much was clear, and the blond Teutonic mane to go with them—the latter inherited from her pure Aryan father—a combination that had bewitched men of Celtic stock for thousands of years before the baron had fallen in love with Marion for other reasons entirely.

There were those who said she had inherited the baron’s laugh.

He didn’t believe it.

That she could laugh there was no doubt. And when they laughed together, as they often did, he would not deny a certain similarity. But when his daughter’s lips opened wide, her white teeth sparkling, the musical timbre of her melodic voice rang with a gaiety of merriment all its own. He could take no share in it.

Sabina was sixteen now, and though nearly full grown, she was in her own right in so many ways still his little girl, so innocent, so full of the playful love of life untainted by the sobering realities of adulthood. She was poised on the beguiling threshold of maturity, one moment delighting as she did at seven over some wondrous childhood discovery, the next a fleeting look coming into her eyes that spoke of the dawning stature of her own approaching womanhood.

He could not help occasional pangs stabbing his father’s heart as he realized how brief were the remaining moments of innocence he would be able to share with her.

How many hours they had spent right here, in the rose garden, with one another. She had helped him plant fifty or more of the very plants they had enjoyed so much together through the years. He had held her in his lap here, walked through the rows bouncing her on his shoulder while explaining his enthusiasm for some new imported variety he had just received. He had read stories to her here, dried her tears, and given her many things from out of his own heart.

This was a tranquil world all its own. He came here to be alone, to think, to pray. This was his closet, his place of quiet retreat. So much of his own faith, his own deepest self, he had given to his daughter among these very trees and shrubs and hedges.