"Well, the truth is," her father confessed, "you were quite right
last night. When I pruned it, a week ago, I may have undermined
it."

"You never will listen to reason!" his daughter remarked absently,
her attention distracted by the setter puppy who came clumsily
gambolling toward her. "Hello, old Bumpydoodles!" she added, with
rich affection, kissing the dog's silky head, and burying both
hands in his feathered collar. "Hello, old Buck!"

"Alexandra, for heaven's sake stop handling that brute!" said
Peter Joyce disgustedly, coming up the path. "I dare say you've
not had your breakfast, either. Go wash your hands! 'Morning,
Doctor!"

Father and daughter turned to smile upon him, a tall, lean man,
with a young face and a finely groomed head, and with touches of
premature silver at his temples. He was very much at home here,
had been their closest friend for many years.

He was a bachelor, just entering his thirties, a fastidious,
critical, exacting man by reputation, but showing his best side to
the Stricklands. They had a vague idea that he was rich, according
to their modest standard, but he apparently had no extravagant
tastes, and lived as quietly, or more quietly, than they did. He
had a brown cabin, up on the mountain, where two or three
Portuguese boys and an old, fat Chinese cook managed his affairs,
and he sometimes spoke of friends at the club, or brought two or
three men home with him for a visit. But for the most part he