At the top of the last flight I stopped, dumb with amazement; the
roof had been transformed, enchanted. It was a fairy-land of
lights and foliage and colors. I had to stop and rub my eyes.
From the bleakness of a tin roof in February to the brightness
and greenery of a July roof garden!

"You were the immediate inspiration, Kit," Dallas said. "Harbison
thought your headache might come from lack of exercise and fresh
air, and he has worked us like nailers all day. I've a blister on
my right palm, and Harbison got shocked while he was wiring the
place, and nearly fell over the parapet. We bought out two
full-sized florists by telephone."

It was the most amazing transformation. At each corner a pole had
been erected, and wires crossed the roof diagonally, hung with
red and amber bulbs. Around the chimneys had been massed
evergreen trees in tubs, hiding their brick-and-mortar ugliness,
and among the trees tiny lights were strung. Along the parapet
were rows of geometrical boxwood plants in bright red crocks, and
the flaps of a crimson and white tent had been thrown open,
showing lights within, and rugs, wicker chairs, and cushions.

Max raised a glass of benedictine and posed for a moment,
melodramatically.

"To the Wilson roof garden!" he said. "To Kit, who inspired; to
the creators, who perspired; and to Takahiro--may he not have
expired."

Every one was very gay; I think the knowledge that tomorrow Aunt