Here and there the stream spread out into a pool or rose into a spouting fountain. About the pools were more flowers, while on the surface water lilies—lily pads with yellow flowers—lay.
As they walked slowly up the narrow walk, the valley widened a little. Low trees began to appear on either side. Beyond this they saw a small house that was all doors and windows.
“It’s out of a story book,” Mary whispered.
“Yes, Arabian Nights,” her father agreed.
They entered the house. At its center a small fountain played. About its walls were low benches piled high with cushions.
“Oh!” Mary breathed, settling herself among the cushions. “Why must life go on and on when it could end itself in a blaze of glory right here?”
Her father laughed but made no reply.
For a long time they remained silent, gazing at the scene before them, bright flowers, gently swaying trees, dashing water, and beyond that, in sharp contrast, dull, brown, barren hills and grassless valleys.
“It’s like life,” Mary whispered. “Beautiful and gay, then somber and sad.”
However, it seemed that for the time their lives were to be filled with beauty, gayety and charm, for here was their jovial host and with him two black slaves bearing trays of fruit, cakes, and tea.