and olive, and through unbroken rows, extending for miles, of
roses, long stretches of white, again a stretch of pink, then
salmon, yellow, and red. Nowhere in all the world are there to
be found so many acres of orchard bloom and so many miles of
tree-lined, rose-decorated roadway as in southern California.
She sent the little car through the evening until she felt that
it was time to go home, and when at last she stopped where they
had started, she realized that neither she nor Peter had spoken
one word. As he stepped from the car she leaned toward him and
reached out her hand.

"Thank you for the fireplace, Peter," she said.

Peter took the hand she extended and held it one minute in both
his own. Then very gently he straightened it out in the palm of
one of his hands and with the other hand turned back the fingers
and laid his lips to the heart of it.

"Thank you, Linda, for the flame," he said, and turning abruptly,
he went toward his workroom.

Stopping for a bite to eat in the kitchen, Linda went back to her
room. She sat down at the table and picking up her pencil, began
to work, and found that she could work. Every stroke came true
and strong. Every idea seemed original and unusual. Quite as
late as a light ever had shone in her window, it shone that
night, the last thing she did being to write another anonymous
letter to Marian, and when she reread it Linda realized that it
was an appealing letter. She thought it certainly would comfort
Marian and surely would make her feel that someone worth while