There was within and about us a peace and joy which were not for us alone.

Our little home was folded within impalpable walls, and beyond it lay a vision of green foliage and golden masses of cloud that never faded off the horizon.

There were benignant presences in our rooms visible to no eyes but ours; for our Arden friends did not forsake us.

There were memories between us which made all our days beautiful with the consciousness of immortal faith and love; there were hopes which, like celestial beings, looked upon us with eyes deep with unspeakable prophecy as they waited at the doors of the future.
It is an autumn afternoon, and the sun lies warm on the ripening vines that cover the wall, and on the late flowers that bloom by the roadside.

As I write these words I look up from my portfolio, and Rosalind sits there, work in hand, smiling at me over her flying needle.