the hills. Mist drifted in from the sleeping sea, and the hush of night
brooded over the river as it murmured through the plain. A single star
uplifted its exquisite lamp against the afterglow, near the veiled ivory
of the crescent moon.

Sighing, the man turned away. "Perhaps," he thought, whimsically, as he
went cautiously down the path, searching out every step of the way,
"there was no sunset at all."

The road was clear until he came to a fallen tree, over which he stepped
easily. The new softness of the soil had, for him, its own deep meaning
of resurrection. He felt it in the swelling buds of the branches that
sometimes swayed before him, and found it in the scent of the cedar as
he crushed a bit of it in his hand.

Easily, yet carefully, he went around the base of the hill to the
street, where his house was the first upon the right-hand side. The gate
creaked on its hinges and he went quickly up the walk, passing the grey
tangle of last Summer's garden, where the marigolds had died and the
larkspur fallen asleep.

Within the house, two women awaited him, one with anxious eagerness, the
other with tenderly watchful love. The older one, who had long been
listening, opened the door before he knocked, but it was Barbara who
spoke to him first.

"You're late, Father, dear."

"Am I, Barbara? Tell me, was there a sunset to-night?"