here often for the same. She--she was a very superior woman,
McTavish--very superior. Ah, man, the soul of her! I cannot bear that
her body should rest in Sequoia cemetery, along with the rag tag and
bobtail o' the town. She was like this sunbeam, McTavish. She--she--"

"Aye," murmured McTavish huskily. "I ken. Ye wouldna gie her a common
or a public spot in which to wait for ye. An' ye'll be shuttin' down
the mill an' loggin'-camps an' layin' off the hands in her honour for
a bit?"

"Until after the funeral, McTavish. And tell your men they'll be paid
for the lost time. That will be all, lad."

When McTavish was gone, John Cardigan sat down on a small sugar-pine
windfall, his head held slightly to one side while he listened to
that which in the redwoods is not sound but rather the absence of it.
And as he listened, he absorbed a subtle comfort from those huge
brown trees, so emblematic of immortality; in the thought he grew
closer to his Maker, and presently found that peace which he sought.
Love such as theirs could never die... The tears came at last.

At sundown he walked home bearing an armful of rhododendrons and
dogwood blossoms, which he arranged in the room where she lay. Then
he sought the nurse who had attended her.

"I'd like to hold my son," he said gently. "May I?"

She brought him the baby and placed it in his great arms that
trembled so; he sat down and gazed long and earnestly at this flesh
of his flesh and blood of his blood. "You'll have her hair and skin