curtains stirring in the summer breeze, peace and simplicity
everywhere. Cherry smiled at the immaculately clad Chinese
stirring something in a yellow bowl in a spotless kitchen whose
windows showed manzanita and wild lilac and madrone trees; smiled
at the big, smoked fireplace where sunlight fell straight on piled
logs down the chimney's great mouth; smiled as she went to and fro
on journeys of investigation. But the smile quivered into tears
when she came to her own room, just such a room as little Charity
Strickland had had, only a few years ago, with white hangings and
unpainted wood, fresh air streaming through it, and redwoods
outside.

"Oh, Alix--I never missed Dad before! But to have him out there,
fussing at something under the trees--to have him call us--'Where
are the girls--I want a girl!'"

"I know--" Alix's own eyes filled. She sat on Cherry's bed while
the younger woman changed her dusty travelling clothes for a worn
but beautiful linen gown, and they said that they would go soon to
the little Sausalito cemetery and see that Dad's favourite
heliotrope was flourishing.

The exquisite day went its peaceful course. Cherry was too tired
for walking, except on a laughing garden-round, when Alix showed
her every separate bush and tree with pride. For the most part she
lay in a deep porch chair, drinking in the beauty and serenity of
the June afternoon, breathing, above the sweet garden odours of
lilac and verbena and mignonette, the piney fragrance of the
forest. Alix, coming and going, watched her affectionately. The
little languid arm in its transparent sleeve, the drooping,