rooms. It had always seemed to Mary that she was born to live in kings'
houses, she so enjoyed luxurious surroundings, but a homesick pang
seized her now, as she looked down on the picture and remembered that
she could never go back to it.

"It doesn't seem as if I have any home now," she sighed, "for I didn't
stay long enough in the new place at Lone-Rock to get used to it. I know
I shall always love the Wigwam best, and when I think of it standing
empty or maybe turned over to strangers, it makes me feel as if one of
my best friends had died. I'm glad we took so many pictures of it, and
that I kept a record of all the good times we had there. Oh, that
reminds me! There's one more thing I must do before sundown--bring my
diary up to date. I haven't written a line in it for six weeks."

The out-doors was too alluring to waste another moment in the house,
however, so gathering up her diary and fountain-pen, she went down
stairs and out into the garden, feeling as the gate swung to behind her
that she was stepping into an old, old English garden belonging to some
ducal estate. Coming as she did straight from the edge of the desert,
with its burning stretches of sand, its cactus and greasewood, its bare
red buttes and lank rows of cotton-wood trees, this Eden of green and
bloom had a double charm for her.

For a long time she wandered up and down its winding paths, finding many
a shady pleasance hidden away among its labyrinths of hedges, where one
might be tempted to stop and dream away a whole long summer afternoon.
But she did not pause until she came to a sort of court surrounded by
rustic arbours, where a fountain splashed in the centre, and an ancient
sun-dial marked the hours. With a pleased cry of recognition she ran
across the closely clipped turf, to read the motto carved on the dial's