Not many hours after he went slowly up to bed morning began to
creep into the little valley. The redwoods turned gray, and then
dark green, the fog stirred, and a first shaft of bright sunlight
struck across a shoulder of the hills, and pierced the shadows
about the brown bungalow. Alix, at her early bath, heard quail
calling, and looked out to see the last of the fog vanishing at
eight o'clock, and to get a wet rush of fragrance from the Persian
lilac, blooming this year for the first time. At half-past eight
she came out into the garden, to find her father somewhat ruefully
studying the tumbled ruins of the yellow banksia rose. The garden
was still wet, but warming fast; she picked a plume of dark and
perfumed heliotrope, and began to fasten it in his coat lapel
while she kissed him.

"We'll never get that back on the roof, my dear boy," Alix said
maternally.

Her father pursed his lips, shook his head doubtfully. The rose, a
short, week ago, had been spreading fan-like branches well toward
the ridge-pole, a story and a half above their heads. But the
great wind of yestereve that had ended the spring and brought in
the summer had dragged it from its place and flung it, a jumble of
emerald leaves and sweet clusters of creamy blossoms, across the
path and the steps of the porch. Alix looked up at the outward
curve of the reversed branches, bent almost to the splitting point
in the unfamiliar direction, and whistled. She tentatively tugged
at a loose spray, and stood biting her thumb.

"Why it should have kept its place for fifteen years and then
suddenly flopped, is a mystery to me!" she observed resentfully.