t
Jerry; Eugene, Eugene, Eugene; Uncle Cornie with his discus, at the door
of the rose-arbor, and all that he had said to her; the old, old songs,
and the thunder-storm's tremendous beauty, and Uncle Cornie again--and
dreams at last, and Jim Swaim, big, strong, shrewd; and Lesa,
sweet-faced, visionary; and then sound slumber bringing complete
oblivion.

Last to sleep and first to waken in the early morning was Jerry. Happy
Jerry! Nobody as happy as she was could sleep--and yet--Uncle Cornie's
last discus-throw had brought new thoughts that would not slip away as
the storm had slipped up the Winnowoc into nowhere. A rift in the lute,
a cloud speck in a blue June sky, was the memory of what Uncle Cornie
had told her when he let his discus roll up to her very feet by the door
of the rose-arbor. Jerry Swaim must not be troubled with lute rifts and
cloud specks. The call of the early morning was in the air, the dewy,
misty, rose-hued dawning of a beautiful day in a beautiful "Eden" where
only beautiful things belong. And loveliest among them all was Jerry
Swaim in her pink morning dress, her glorious crown of hair agleam in
the sun's early rays, her blue eye full of light.

The sweetest spot to her in all "Eden" on this morning was the
rose-arbor. It belonged to her now by right of Eugene and--Uncle Cornie.
The snatches of an old love-ballad, one of the songs she had sung with
Eugene the night before, were on her lips as she left the veranda and
passed with light step down the lilac walk toward the arbor. The very
grass blades seemed to sing with her, and all the rain-washed world
glowed with green and gold and creamy white, pink and heliotrope and
rose.

At the turn of the walk toward the arbor Jerry paused to drink in the
richness of all this colorful scene. And then, for no reason at all, she
remembered what Uncle Cornie had said about his colorless life. Strange
that she had never, in her own frivolous existence, thought of him in
that way before. But with the alchemy of love in her veins she began to
see things in a new light. His had been a dull existence. If Aunt Jerry
ever really loved him she must have forgotten it long ago. And he made
so little noise in the world, anyhow, it was easy to forget that he was
in it. She had forgotten him last night even after all that he had said.
He had had no part in their music, nor the beauty of the storm.

But here he was up early and sitting at the doorway of the rose-arbor