Miss Reade said that everything in the garden, plot or shrub or tree, recalled to her mind some phrase or verse of her Aunt Una's, so that the whole place seemed full of her, and her memory haunted the walks like a faint, sweet perfume.
"Una had, as I've told you, a lover; and they were to have been married on her twentieth birthday.

Her wedding dress was to have been a gown of white brocade with purple violets in it.

But a little while before it she took ill with fever and died; and she was buried on her birthday instead of being married.

It was just in the time of opening roses.

Her lover has been faithful to her ever since; he has never married, and every June, on her birthday, he makes a pilgrimage to the old garden and sits for a long time in silence on the bench where he used to woo her on crimson eves and moonlight nights of long ago.