ng the young man for his forbearance,--with a
chuckle of satisfaction, lighted his pipe and opened his book. Scarcely
had he found his place in the pages, however, when he was again
interrupted--this time, by the welcome tones of their neighbor's violin.
Putting his book aside, the man reclining in the shelter of the roses,
with half-closed eyes, yielded himself to the fancy of the spirit that
called from the depths of the fragrant orange grove.

The mass of roses in the hedge and on the wall of the studio above his
head dropped their lovely petals down upon him. The warm, slanting rays of
the afternoon sun, softened by the screen of shining leaves and branches,
played over the bewildering riot of color. Here and there, golden-bodied
bees and velvet-winged butterflies flitted about their fairy-like duties.
Far above, in the deep blue, a hawk floated on motionless wings and a
lonely crow laid his course toward the distant mountain peaks that
gleamed, silvery white, above the blue and purple of the lower ridges and
the tawny yellow of their foothills. The air was saturated with the
fragrance of the rose and orange blossoms, of eucalyptus and pepper trees,
and with the thousand other perfumes of a California spring.

The music ceased. The man waited--hoping that it would begin again. But it
did not; and he was about to take up his book, once more, when Czar arose,
stretched himself, stood for a moment in a picturesque, listening
attitude, then trotted off among the roses; leaving the novelist with an
odd feeling of uneasy expectancy--half resolved to stay, half determined
to go. The thought of Louise in the house decided him, and he kept his
place, hidden as he was, in the corner--a whimsical smile hovering over
his world-lined features as though, after all, he felt himself entering
upon some enjoyable adventure.

Presently, he heard indistinctly, somewhere in the other end of the
garden, a low murmuring voice. As it came nearer, the man's smile grew
more pronounced It was a wonderfully attractive voice, clear and full in
its pure-toned sweetness. The unseen speaker was talking to the novelist's
dog. The smile on the man's face was still more pronounced, as he
whispered to himself, "The rascal! So this is what he has been up to!"
Rising quietly to his knees, he peered through the flower-laden bushes.

A young woman of rare and exquisite beauty was moving about the
garden--bending over the roses, and talking in low tones