"I will, indeed," said Arnold. "That is just the kind of thing she
will delight in. If you are going East, Miss Newell, shall we not be
fellow-travelers? I should be so glad to be of any service."

"No, thank you. I am to spend a month in Santa Barbara, and escort an
invalid friend home. I shall have to say good-by, now. Don't go any farther
with me, please."

That night Arnold mused late, leaning over the railing of the new piazza
in the moonlight. He fancied that a faint perfume of violets came from the
damp earth below; but it could have been only fancy, for when he searched
the bank for them they were not there. The new sod was trampled, and a few
leaves and slight, uptorn roots lay scattered about, with some broken twigs
from the climbing-rose. He had found the gate open when he came, and the
Dyer cow had passed him, meandering peacefully up the trail.

* * * * *

The crescent moon had waxed and waned since the night when it lighted the
engineer's musings through the wind-parted live-oak boughs, and another
slender bow gleamed in the pale, tinted haze of twilight. The month had
gone, like a feverish dream, to the young schoolmistress, as she lay in her
small, upper chamber, unconscious of all save alternate light and darkness,
and rest following pain. When, at last, she crept down the short staircase
to breathe the evening coolness, clinging to the stair-rail and holding her
soft white draperies close around her, she saw the pink light lingering
on the mountains, and heard the chorus to the "Sweet By and By" from the
miners' chapel on the hill. It was Sunday evening, and the house was
piously "emptied of its folk." She took her old seat by the parlor window,
and looked across to the engineer's office; its windows and doors were