"Then there will always be. I think it was Happiness because she went away so quickly." "Happiness does. Did you try to hold her?" "So hard! But I was clumsy and rough. She slipped through my arms." "Did she leave nothing?" "Nothing." "Then what is this?" I lifted from the ground at his feet a single petal of pink rose, fragrant, unwithered, and placed it in his hand. "The fairy's kiss," he said dreamily. "That's for farewell." The moon, dipped beyond a cloud, dissolved the spell. Youth straightened up brusquely on its bench, rubbing enchantment from its eyes. "Have I been talking in my sleep, Dominie?" "Possibly." "What kind of talk? Nonsense?" "Nonsense--or wisdom. How should I know?" "Dominie, is there a perfume in the air? A smell of roses?" "Look in your hand." He opened his fingers slowly and closed them again, tenderly, jealously. "I must go now," he said vaguely. "May I come back to see you sometimes, Dominie?" "Perhaps you'll bring Happiness with you," I said. But he only shook his head. On the morrow his van was gone from the alley and the house at Number 37, which had once been the House of Silvery Voices, was voiceless again. * * * * * Something of the savor of life went with the vanners out of Our Square. I missed their broad-ranging and casual talk of politics, art, religion, the fourth dimension, and one another. Yet I felt sure that I should see them both again. There is a spell woven in Our Square--it has held me these sixty years and more, and I wonder at times whether Death himself can break it--which draws back the hearts that have once known the place. It was a long month, though, before the butterfly fluttered back.