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ARIADNE. 5like the moorlands of the north, and their oldgnarled oaks, and their empurpled hoards ofviolets, that are so many that you cannot treadthere a step in winter without crushing half ahundred little fragrant hoodedheads.Ihad gone on an errand with a gardener'shobnailed shoes; he was walking against thewind, as men walk who would escape fromghoststhat will keep pace with them, ghosts that thesunlight neverscares away.He almost struck against me as he passed,and,pausing, recognisedme.It was twilight in a wintry eve; the seabreezewas sweeping keen and cold through thebranches of the pines;the swans and the statuesby the water's edge looked chill and shadowy;the bold uplands of the shelving turf werecrisp with glistening frost; the owls werehooting.He looked at me inthe sad twilight which lastsbut such aHttle momenthere inRome." It is you!" he said with a gentle voice." My old fiiend, haveIbeen neglectful ofyou or unkind ?Ihave not seen you for